Walt High: A Disney High School Story
by marian-ette92
Summary: Jim Hawkins doesn't really fit in at Walt High. At least, that's what he believes. Will the spunky, carefree Ariel or the thoughtful, independent Belle be able to change his mind?
1. Chapter 1

Jim Hawkins maneuvered his skateboard around the clusters of unmoving cars, one hand relaxed at his side, the other clutching the Discman in his pocket—yes, he still had one of those. He was barely aware of the traffic as he swerved effortlessly through it, his thoughts absorbed by the song that blasted over his Skullcandy headphones:

"I'm Still Here" by John Rzeznik.

This kind of traffic was the norm at 7:55 a.m., but it wasn't the parents clogging up the roads; most parents had been smart enough to send their kids on an earlier bus. No, chaos ensued because the newly-licensed seniors were _determined_ to drive the quarter mile to school in their fancy new cars.

"Idiots," Jim muttered. He veered to avoid the bumper of a red BMW convertible.

Without warning, the front door suddenly flew open, catching Jim square in the stomach. He cried out, flipping forward and landing hard on his back. Meanwhile, is skateboard sped on without him, disappearing beneath a minivan. He blinked up through a sea of stars. Of course: the face peering down at him belonged to Kay King, a tall, broad-shouldered senior with red hair and a long, squared-off chin. He was grinning deviously, clearly relishing his position of power.

 _I'm in trouble_ , thought Jim.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Loner-Boy Hawkins. Didn't see you there. You're so short you didn't show up in my rearview mirror."

Jim tried to reply. He coughed instead.

"Why don't you just sit tight, Hawkins? Wait here in traffic with rest of us?" Kay shrugged. "It's only fair"—and he lifted his foot to deliver a kick to Jim's gut.

"Leave him alone, Kay!"

Jim recognized the boy in the passenger's seat. It was Wart, Kay's adopted brother. 'Wart' wasn't his real name, of course, but few besides Jim knew him as Arthur anymore, not even his teachers. The kid had his obnoxious adopted family to thank for that.

"Quiet, Wart," Kay hissed.

But the twelve-year-old persisted. "You've already knocked him down. Besides, we're gonna be la—"

With a colossal fist, Kay grabbed Arthur by the shirt and pinned him against the car door. "I said _quiet._ "

Arthur wriggled like a worm on a hook. "Hey! Lemme go!"

"Leave him alone." Jim had managed to prop himself up on one arm. "Come on, Kay."

But the senior ignored him. "You'd better keep your mouth shut, pipsqueak," he spat at Wart, "or Dad'll ground you for a month!"

"It's okay, Arthur. I'm fine." Jim was on his knees now, using the open door to pull himself up. Kay grinned. Releasing his brother, he slammed the open door shut, sending Jim staggering into the side of a sea-green Chevrolet.

"Ah, ah, ah," Kay scolded, his eyes glinting wickedly. "You don't get to touch my ride."

The minivan ahead pulled forward, revealing Jim's skateboard. Kay revved up his engine. "Hey," said Jim. "Hey, WAIT!" But the BMW, roaring with power, was already lurching forward. Jim reached for his skateboard, willing it to move. It didn't, and with a sickening CRUNCH, Kay's tires reduced it to a pile of splintered remains.

"Or I get to crush yours."

Jim watched the senior drive away, too horrified to move.

"Oh my gosh!" Meanwhile, the back-right window of the Chevrolet had rolled down, revealing a very pretty face framed by ruby-red hair. Jim barely noticed her—or the mean-looking chauffeur in sunglasses sitting behind the wheel. "Did that guy seriously just—?"

"Whatever," said Jim. "It was old." He slung his backpack over his shoulder, letting his straight, dark bangs fall across his face like a curtain.

Her enormous eyes wide with sympathy, the girl reached across the back seat and pushed the passenger door open. "Here, I'll give you a ride," she said. "You go to Walt High too, right?"

But Jim was already making his way down the road, head down, hands buried deep in his pockets.

* * *

Jim spent first period glaring down at his textbook. For once, he was glad he had astronomy first; Dr. Doppler was excitable and scatterbrained, known throughout the student body for his long-winded tangents and his tendency to forget that there were students in the room. Normally, Jim would have been bored to tears, but just then he was glad to be left alone.

"So, you see," said Dr. Doppler, "physicists have been looking at the solar spectrum since Isaac Newton first used a prism to observe the refractive properties of light. In the early 1800s . . ."

Jim flipped his notebook to the back page. A few months ago he'd started a board design that included the addition of jets and a sail. At the time he'd called it a 'solar surfer,' and he'd fully intended to build it one day—not that he'd ever be able to afford the parts. Still, the idea was a comforting one, so he continued where he'd left off last class: shading the sail.

Then, someone tapped their pencil on the edge of his desk, someone tall and tan and totally ripped: Tarzan Wild. Back in junior high, the now-junior had taught Jim to skate every day after school (and sometimes during school). They'd been buddies ever since. "Hey, Jim. You okay?" he asked.

Jim shrugged. He kept shading.

"I heard about your board," Tarzan continued, his voice low. "That was pretty low, even for Kay."

"I don't know, the guy's out there crushing kids all the time—why not boards?"

Tarzan snorted, but Jim wasn't trying to be funny. The skater's expression sobered. "Maybe he wouldn't have run it over if he'd known your dad had made it."

Jim sighed.

"Look, I know where you can get a pretty good board. If you want, I can—"

The tip of Jim's pencil snapped. "There isn't going to _be_ a new board," he hissed. "Not exactly rolling in cash these days, remember?"

Tarzan sat back. "Yeah, I know." He picked up his pencil and placed it on Jim's desk. "I was talking about mine. You can have it. You know, if you want."

"Which brings us," said Dr. Doppler, "to the subject of astronomical spectroscopy. _Fascinating_ stuff! If anyone's interested, I've written an article that can be found in the forty-seventh issue of _Supernova_ , the leading astronomy journal since 1957. Now, if you'll all turn to page eighty-one in your textbooks, you'll find a perfect example of . . ."

Jim rubbed the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. "Look, Tarzan, I really . . . um—" His voice cracked. He stood.

"Is there a problem, Jim?" said Dr. Doppler.

"Sick," Jim mumbled, and he left.

Jim didn't go home. Ditching school would only stress his mom out—not to mention he'd never live it down if Kay and his friends found out Loner-Boy Hawkins had 'run home to mommy.' So, instead he went to the one spot in Walt High he knew no one would bother him: beneath the bleachers on the football field.

Well, almost no one. Apparently Meg and Hercules had it in their heads that the spot was theirs. As soon as Jim told the couple to beat it, the place was his to fume in.

He stretched out on the grass and pulled out his pocket knife. With a satisfying snap, the blade flipped open. Jim took a moment to stare at his reflection before stabbing it into the ground beside him. Then he rolled over, gazing at the handle. The initials 'J. H.' had been messily carved into the otherwise-flawless wood, Jim's handy work as an eleven-year-old. He could still picture his dad's face when he'd shown it to him: a hurtful mix of annoyance and bafflement.

Not that that mattered now. As it turned out, Mr. Hawkins had found someone he loved more than his own family.

But abandonment had done more than ensure a future of trust issues for Jim; his financial situation wasn't so hot either. Even with his mom working two jobs—one at Bella Notte Italian Grill, the other at Grandmother Fa's Dry Cleaners—they were only just getting by. Jim had offered to work too, of course, but Mrs. Hawkins wouldn't allow it during the school year, even if that meant Ramen noodles for a month.

So, of course, Jim was planning to get himself a job in secret. Thankfully, Lumiere's French Cuisine was offering custodial positions. It was pretty good money at the end of the day—literally; the hours were pretty late. But Tarzan had promised he would cover for him. This was, after all, a favor for his second mother. A secret favor, but a favor nonetheless.

Jim sighed. He would talk to Chef Louis that evening.

"Okay, you have got to tell me everything. Come on, _spill!_ "

Jim jumped. He'd been so lost in thought he hadn't even noticed two girls climb into the bleachers above him.

"But there's nothing _to_ tell!"

Jim squinted through the gaps in the bleacher seats. He recognized one of the girls: Jane Porter. Extremely enthusiastic and ridiculously smart, Jane was every teacher's dream student, including her father's. (Mr. Porter taught biology.) She was a couple years younger than Jim, which made her a freshman this year. He knew this because she and Jim had attended the same junior high school.

He only vaguely recognized the other girl, though—mostly by her hair, which was as red as Kay's BMW. Jim craned his neck to get a better look at her.

"Oh no you don't," said the redhead. "You are totally crushing on someone, I can see it in your eyes! Tell me, is it that hot skater kid? You go all to pieces whenever he's around."

"Um . . . that depends. Which one?"

The redhead gasped. "I knew it! Okay, okay, okay, so one of them has short brown hair and this weird pony tail thing in the back."

The blood drained from Jim's face. He frowned.

"You mean the Hawkins boy?" said Jane. "Oh, no! No, no, no, we don't even know each other!"

 _Yeah, no kidding,_ thought Jim. Then it clicked. _No way. They mean_ . . .

"Oh my gosh. The super-buff, shirtless dude with dreads! Jane! You like _Tarzan_!"

Even from his hiding place, Jim could see that Jane's face had turned the color of her friend's hair. "He's not _always_ shirtless."

The redhead squealed. "Aw, Jane, I totally approve! The boy is hilarious. I mean, have you seen his impersonation of Coach Clayton?"

Jim suppressed the urge to second that statement. Coach Clayton was the PE instructor and football coach, and Tarzan did, in fact, do an incredible impersonation of him, booming voice, exaggerated swagger, and all. Jim could still picture him strutting around the cafeteria, barking orders at students—and occasionally teachers. The memory alone was enough to send Jim into fits of laughter—which he suppressed now by slapping a hand over his mouth.

"I know," said Jane. "And his eyes. Have you ever seen such piercing, focused . . . ?" She swooned.

It was all Jim could do not to bust a gut.

"Oh, Jane, you should see your face," said Jane's friend. "Precious. This is _too_ fun—ooh! Tell me more!"

But Jane's demeanor switched from dreamy to haughty. "Absolutely not," she said in her thick English accent. "I've said far too much already. Anyway, it's your turn! Has anyone caught your eye yet?" She nudged her friend.

 _Oh boy._

"It's too early in the semester to tell. Besides, there's a lot to get used to after we all split up for junior high."

"For example?"

"Well, Hercules has certainly changed. Remember how scrawny he used to be? When did he decide to bulk up? And what the heck, he's dating _Meg_ now? Meg. I'll be honest, I never thought she'd go for him."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you know Meg. I mean, she's super funny, but she's also kind of . . ."

"Sarcastic?"

 _Emo?_

"I was gonna say closed off. And kind of a bad girl, back at Roy Middle. You were at Raymond Middle, so you wouldn't know. Anyway, I'm just glad to see she finally raised her standards a little. They're cute!"

 _Oh, they're cute, alright, especially if you catch them kissing under the bleachers._

"Anyway, I'm still trying to figure people out. It's nice so many people still remember me, though."

"People like Aladdin?" Jane winked.

"Shut up," said the redhead, but she grinned wickedly. "Anyway, that reminds me—when did that skater kid move in?"

"Tarzan?"

"No, no, his friend. Hawkins, or whatever."

"Oh. He went to Raymond Middle too. He's two years ahead of us."

Jim carefully removed his knife from the turf. He pocketed it, then he shrank back against one of the metal bars and was silent.

The redhead paused. "Is it just me, or does he seem . . . like, not happy? Ever?"

"If the rumors are true, I don't think he's had it easy."

Jim frowned. If the rumors are true: what was _that_ supposed to mean? What were people saying about him _now?_

Before he could find out, the lunch bell rang out across the school. Seconds later, the sounds of laughing and shouting began to echo across the field as students trickled onto it. Desperate to gossip some more, the girls exchanged a look, and retreated beneath the bleachers for some privacy.

Jim was already long gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Her name was Ariel Poole and she needed to mind her own business.

That's all Jim knew, and all he _wanted_ to know (or so he told himself) as the week went on. But whether he liked it or not, noticing her once had doomed him to notice her absolutely everywhere.

He spotted her immediately, for example, as he and Tarzan walked into the cafeteria the following Thursday.

Ariel liked to switch up the people she sat with, with Jane at her side wherever she went. Most of the time they sat with Belle, a kind, intelligent girl with brown hair, and glasses when she was reading, which was almost always. Jim liked Belle. She was always nice to him, though not in the awkward, sympathetic way some people were. When they passed in the hall, she'd ask him briefly how he was, and he would reply, briefly. And then they would mind their own business. Unless, of course, her nose was stuck in a book. On those days she preferred to be left alone, so Jane and Ariel sought out other company.

Sometimes they would sit with a group students referred to as 'the Royals.' These were the kids who had it all: money, status, and looks to kill. Philip was their leader. He was tall and handsome and had a generally pleasant personality—nothing special, as Jim saw it, except that he was looking at a solid position in his parents' billion dollar business as soon as he completed college. His friends Florian and Char were no worse off. No one really knew much about those two, except that they too were handsome and rich and, of course, _nice._

And then there were the lady Royals: Aurora, a tall, willowy blonde, Ella, a sweet strawberry-blonde, and Snow, with her hair black as ebony and her skin as white as, well, yeah. Not surprisingly, they too were excessively rich, which, by default, made them Royals as well.

Today, however, Ariel was seated very comfortably with the 'Street Rats,' which made Jim want to hurl one. Aladdin, Eric, Naveen: together they made up Walt High's most popular rock band, and some of the school's most popular bachelors. Girls flocked to them like bears to honey, and Ariel, it seemed, was no exception. She'd positioned herself between Aladdin and Eric today, and was chatting their ears off about who knew what. Meanwhile, Jane was looking as comfortable as a mouse in a tiger trap; she squirmed beneath Naveen's seductive gaze, her eyes darting around the room to avoid it. She had Jim's sympathy.

He tried not to stare at them. "Hey, Tar, can we eat somewhere else today?"

Tarzan shrugged, an entire banana rendering him mute. _Why?_ his expression read.

"Well, it's, um . . ." Jim racked his brain. "It's a nice day out. I, uh, don't want to miss it."

The excuse tasted bad coming out of his mouth, but that, apparently, was what he was going with. He shrugged uncomfortably. Then, before he could stop himself, he found himself staring directly at Ariel. Again. She was shaking with laughter now, her shoulders heaving as Aladdin whispered something into her ear.

Tarzan looked at Jim. He turned to look at whatever was making his friend blush, then turned back again. He swallowed the banana. "Yeah, I guess it's . . . pretty nice out."

Jim quickly looked down at his lunch, which consisted of two ham sandwiches, a water bottle, and an apple. "You know what? Never mind. I'm good," he said, and he took a bite of sandwich. But his eyes continued to flicker between lunch and the redhead.

Tarzan knew something was up, but between pressing his friend for answers and shoving another banana into his mouth, he chose the banana.

* * *

The time was 10:30 p.m., half an hour before Lumiere's closed. Jim had figured that if he showed up when they needed a cleanup man the most, he'd have a better chance of landing a job. So, with combed hair and nice-ish shirt tucked halfway in—he'd tried—he made his way to the restaurant, ready to start then and there, if that's what the job called for.

The back door was at the end of a long, dark alley, fenced off by a tall wooden fence. Jim scaled it easily enough, dropping into the dimly lit area. Two dogs, a gray mutt and a cocker spaniel, had been sniffing around the garbage cans, but as Jim approached the door, they darted around him, flew through a loose board, and disappeared into the night. The skater jumped, startled as they'd been. Nerves.

 _Get it together, Jim._

With a deep, shaky breath, he approached the door. It was unlocked, thanks goodness. He let himself in . . .

. . . and nearly let himself right back out again.

To say the kitchen was a disaster area would have been a gross understatement. The walls were covered in splotches of various soups and sauces, and knives of all sizes were jutting out of the walls, some still quivering. But the most shocking sight of all was Chef Louis himself. He was completely covered in flour, his hair and mustache singed in places. At the moment he was attempting to shove himself into the tiny cupboard beneath the sink.

"I will— _gah!_ —get you, mah leetle— _oof!_ —crab! Just . . . you . . . AIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

With a sound like an enormous plunger, Chef Louis launched himself from the cupboard and flew across the room. For a moment he lay in the middle of the floor, flailing like an overturned beetle. Then he jumped to his feet, cursing and stomping and waving his hands furiously above his head. Jim squinted. Was that a crab clamped onto his left pinky?

Suddenly, another man burst into the kitchen. Jim recognized him from the food magazines his mom liked to read. This was Lumiere himself, unmistakably so. His long, thin nose, his charming smile, and his extravagant style made him easy to pick out in the largest of crowds—or in the fullest of restaurants, as was more often the case.

The iconic smile vanished, however, at the sight of his kitchen. "Chef Louis! What have you done to this place? _Quel désastre!_ "

Chef Louis turned to face his employer. With a sheepish grin, he hid stinging finger in his apron pocket.

"Zee crab," he squeaked, "for zee delicacy, I-I was trying to—"

Lumiere cocked an eyebrow.

"It was him!" the chef cried suddenly, and his outstretched arm quivered like a tightly drawn string.

Jim looked around. Yes, the chef was pointing at him. "Wait, what?"

"He is zee new custodian," Chef Louis continued. "He is responsible for zee mess!"

"W-wait, no!" Jim sputtered. "I just came to apply for the job, I swear!"

Lumiere's gaze shifted between the two of them. "Well, then, Monsieur . . . ?" He gestured towards the seventeen-year-old.

"Uh, it's Jim."

The Frenchman nodded. "Ah. Well, Monsieur Jim, it looks like you have your work cut out for you." He winked, then turned to his head chef. "As for you, Chef Louis, you'd better have fifty cheese soufflés rolling through these doors in five minutes or I'll have Linguini take your place as head Chef before you can say _le poisson_!" Their attentions turned towards a lanky ginger in the corner who Jim hadn't even noticed until now. Linguini, who didn't appear to have noticed them either, was currently chopping a single onion at a painfully-slow pace, his tongue protruding from his mouth, tears leaking over his freckled cheeks.

"You get my point," said Lumiere, and with that, he disappeared through the swinging doors.

Chef Louis was swollen with anger. Fists clenched, arms stiff, shoulders trembling, he turned to face his new employee. Jim was about to back away, but a broad smile suddenly stretched over the chef's round face. "Well, _Monsieur Hawkins_ ," he said. His voice was quiet, like the sound air makes as it's gradually released from a large, red balloon. "Now zat you will be working here, zere is someone I would like you to meet."

Jim glanced towards Linguini, uncertainly.

"Meet"—he pointed to the corner of the room—"Monsieur Mop, and Mademoiselle Bucket!" Cackling at his own joke, he returned to the kitchen area.

"Yipee," said Jim. As he made his way towards his 'new friends,' he pulled out his cell phone and typed out a message:

 _got the custodial job. be home late._

 _tell mom im at your place. thanks._

He sent it to Tarzan.

Chef Louis was singing to himself now, Linguini still chopping. But as Jim tucked his phone away, he felt an enormous burden lift from his shoulders. Okay, so this job wasn't much of a résumé builder, but it was something, and maybe that was enough to make things a little easier for a while.


	3. Chapter 3

Jim didn't sleep well that night. He dreamed that the mop in Lumiere's kitchen sprouted arms and began to mop the floor all on its own, only it mopped so much and for so long, the whole kitchen flooded. The sudden appearance of Chef Louis' giant, red face, however, was what jolted Jim awake at 5:45 a.m. He did not go back to sleep.

Well. Not until third period, anyway. After fifteen minutes of propping his head up in the palm of his hand, Jim finally surrendered to exhaustion, allowing his face to slide down the side of his arm. He was asleep before his face hit the desk.

Something bounced off of his left temple. He opened one eye. A wad of paper was sitting on his desk. He flicked it away, grumbling quietly.

Then another wad hit him, this time in the nose. He sat up. Two rows over, Kay (surprise, surprise), was smirking in his direction, and he wasn't the only one.

Vanessa Ursula, conniving, cruel, and _insanely_ hot (Walt High's token mean girl) tore another sheet of paper from her notebook. Ah, that made more sense; Jim had found the idea of Kay owning actual school supplies to be a little far-fetched. She kept her sultry-yet-deadly gaze on Jim as she passed the paper to her sidekicks, Anastasia and Drizella Tremaine. Significantly less insanely-hot, these two were there for one purpose and one purpose only: to make Vanessa look good. As if to illustrate this point, they giggled and snorted obnoxiously as they passed the sheet back, earning dark stares from Milo Thatch, Belle, and Jane on the front row.

Which reminded Jim: redhead alert three rows up (as if he needed reminding).

The final recipient of the sheet of paper was Gaston Armand, Vanessa's off-and-on boyfriend—and one of Walt High's most effective offensive tackles. Chuckling, the burly senior scribbled something down on it, crumpled it up, and tossed it in Jim's direction. Jim caught it midair. He stared at it. He really didn't want to know, that much was obvious. Moreover, ticking these guys off was a far more attractive idea than finding out how bad Gaston's spelling was. So, with a defiant shrug, he held out his arm and dropped the still-crumpled message onto the floor.

"Mr. Hawkins, _what_ are you doing?" The voice, sharp and unforgiving, belonged to Ms. Tremaine, Jim's home economics professor. Yes, she was Anastasia and Drizella mother, and, yes, she did hate teaching home economics as much as she loved making an example of wayward students.

"Nothing," Jim said hurriedly. He clasped his hands in front of him, hoping to appear innocent.

The woman's nostrils flared as she made her way towards him. She was elegant and imposing, like a tall, spindle-legged bird, though her hair-piled-high look said 'dragon.' Jim couldn't imagine how Ella, having been raised by this terrifying woman, had turned out so decent. As Ms. Tremaine reached Jim's desk, her eyes moved to the wadded papers on the floor.

"Wasting paper, are we? Killing trees?"

As if she cared. "No, ma'am."

Her eyes widened, lips curled. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not." Jim bit his tongue. Acting on the defense would get him nowhere fast. "I was just, um—"

"Pick it up."

Jim did as he was told.

"Now read it."

"What?" Jim's face flushed. Was she serious? First, he had to put up with Kay and Co., and now everyone and their mother had to know about it? He could feel the stares of his classmates boring into his skin—Ariel's especially.

"Mr. Hawkins," said Ms. Tremaine with the annunciation of someone who'd spent the majority of their life in finishing school, "I said _read it_. This is _my_ classroom. As such, it is my right to take part in any conversation that may occur within these walls. I just hope, for your sake, that _that_ "—she eyed the wad with obvious disgust—"has something to do with consumer science."

Jim tried desperately to think his way out of this. But there didn't seem to _be_ a way out, which meant that whatever insult or nickname the Brainless Bunch had managed to scrape up today was the classroom's to use. And then the school's. What if the message was about his mom? His _dad_? With hands that shook ever-so-slightly, he began to un-wad the message.

"Ms. Tremaine?"

All heads turned. A hand had shot up across the classroom.

Jim blinked. It was Belle's.

Ms. Tremaine smiled impatiently. "Miss Larose. Yes, what is it?"

With an expression that balanced both confidence and humility, Belle looked Ms. Tremaine square in the eye. Confronting teachers was clearly her thing. "The note is mine," she said, her cheeks slightly flushed. Ms. Tremaine raised a single brow of doubt. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude, but . . ." Belle glanced Jim's way. "But, if you don't mind, I would prefer that its contents remained private."

Jim's jaw dropped as a wave of hushed theories swept across the classroom. Ms. Tremaine silenced them with a hand. She frowned. Unlike her coworkers, she held no favor for her more studious pupils. Rather, Anastasia and Drizella received the only merciful attention she had to offer (although Jim could swear he'd seen her roll her eyes at them once or twice). Belle's plea for mercy fell upon a heart of stone.

"I see," she said finally. "Well, unfortunately for you, Miss Larose, you chose to relinquish your rights to privacy when you tossed your conversation across the room. Besides, I think I speak for all of us when I say you've piqued my curiosity."

No one countered her claim. _Cowards,_ thought Jim.

"Now. Mr. Hawkins. If you please."

Belle looked at Jim, her expression defeated. He held her gaze. Well, it had _almost_ been a good idea, the teacher being its only flaw. Anyone else—Mr. Merlin, Dr. Doppler, Mrs. Radcliffe, even—would have granted the girl just about anything. Still, it was likely that she would walk away from this unscathed. After all, once the note was read aloud, the students would instantly recognize Belle's lie, incapable as she was of any unkindness. Would Ms. Tremaine, though? Prepared for the worst, Jim slowly unwrapped their doom.

". . . um."

Ms. Tremaine could barely contain her sadistic anticipation. "Well?" she snarled.

But Jim just sat there, blinking down at the message. Was that relief on his face or horror? Delight or disappointment? The students waited with baited breath.

" _Well?_ "

"It's . . . it's a phone number."

There was silence. Then pandemonium ensued. Giggles, gasps, and a series of _aw_ 's broke out amongst the students. Cell phones buzzed. From the back row, Naveen let out a series of whistles and hoots.

Ms. Tremaine snatched up the note. Her furious expression confirmed Jim's statement.

Meanwhile, poor Belle had turned a shocking shade of crimson. This, clearly, was not what she'd been expecting. To make matters worse, the number— undoubtedly Vanessa's— had been adorned with a smattering of hearts and cartoon lips: a poorly attempted joke, but there was no denying that Belle was one of the prettiest girls in school. This was no mark on Jim's reputation.

He shrugged at his would-be humiliators, who sizzled like eggs on a white-hot sidewalk.

* * *

"Belle." Jim had been waiting by her locker since lunch hour started. "Belle, I'm sorry."

She shrugged casually, but her posture was tense. "For what?"

"I shouldn't have read what was on the note. I should have, I dunno. Made something up. That was stupid."

Belle bit her lip. "That _was_ pretty embarrassing."

"I know. And I'm really sorry."

Her expression softened. "It's alright. You didn't exactly have a choice. I probably bank too much on the fact that I'm a nerd, anyway."

"You're not a nerd." The comment slipped out automatically. Belle cocked an eyebrow. "Well, okay," mumbled Jim, "but not in a bad way. G-good. Good nerd. Um, you know what I mean."

She nodded slowly. "You're, uh, leaning against my locker."

"Oh, right." He moved.

She fiddled with the lock for a moment, then pried the door open with a hideous squeak. Jim snuck a peak. Just as he'd suspected: the locker was filled to the brim with books, her own personal library.

"I take it all back. You really _are_ a nerd."

Surprisingly, Belle smiled at this. "Yes, well, Mrs. Radcliffe likes to give me extra assignments." Now it was Jim's turn to cock an eyebrow. "Okay, fine, I _ask_ for them." She bit back a smile as she switched one book from the pile in her arms out for two in her locker. "So, whose number was that, anyway?"

"Hmm? Oh. Vanessa's, I think, but Gaston wrote it out. . . . Actually, thinking about it, now, it's probably his. He's got a weird sense of humor."

"Apparently." She continued to switch books out, her brow furrowed. "Does that happen to you a lot?"

"What?" He smiled slyly. "Getting girls' numbers?"

Belle rolled her eyes.

"Oh- _oh_ , the notes, right. No, not really. I mean, sometimes. It's whatever." He shoved his hands into his pockets and kicked at the ground. "They're just bored, I think."

"And rude and conceited," Belle added. "I'd be insulted if they ever took a liking to me."

Jim snorted. "Right. Cause being liked really sucks."

He'd have slapped himself if Belle weren't standing there. Was he _trying_ to look like a self-pitying moron? But the pretty senior didn't reply. She just looked at him, her expression unreadable. Jim cleared his throat. "Okay, well, people are going to start talking if I keep standing here, so . . ." He spun on his heel and began to walk away, then spun back. "Look, I, uh . . . what you did . . . thanks."

Belle nodded, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You're welcome."


	4. Chapter 4

Jim couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before: Jane's inability to look away when Tarzan entered the room; the fire in her cheeks, that derpy smile—Ariel's incessant nudging and winking. Poor Jane. She had it bad, alright. Meanwhile, there sat Tarzan, enthralled with his lunch and his bio textbook, completely oblivious to the lady's affections. It was all too funny not to say _something_.

"You know," said Jim, in as wise a tone a mouthful of sandwich would allow, "if you took your mind off of homework and food for two seconds, you might start to notice some amazing things."

Tarzan glanced up from his textbook. As usual, his mouth was full. He shrugged.

"I'm being serious."

Tarzan swallowed. "Serious about what?"

"Look, it's cool that we, you know, hang out and stuff."

"Don't be weird."

"I'm just saying, maybe . . . maybe we should get out more."

Now Jim had his friend's full attention. "Who is she?"

"What?"

"This girl you like." He grinned. "The one you keep staring at. Who is she and what has she done to you?"

"Hey— no! This isn't about me!"

"Uhhhh huh."

" _Oh_ -kay." Jim rolled his eyes. Meanwhile, Ariel's laugh rang out like wild bells across the courtyard—which didn't make sense. She and Jane were sitting with the Royals today. To Jim's knowledge they weren't exactly hilarious people.

Tarzan smiled knowingly. "Alright. Let's say we start 'getting out more.' What exactly did you have in mind?"

"Well . . ." A nudging war had broken out between Jane and Ariel, both of whom were whispering furiously, their eyes on the skaters. "For a start, we've got a bio test coming up. So, we should, you know, probably find someone to study with."

"Right. Because study groups— _people_ , generally speaking—are totally your thing."

"Okay, fine, you know what? Never mind. We'll study alone. Who cares."

Tarzan chuckled. "Whatever you say."

They left the cafeteria

* * *

To say that Mr. Merlin loved what he taught would be like saying his beard was only a little bit long. He lived for science, he worshipped science (and his beard, by the way, went down to his knees). "Science," he would often explain, "is what separates man from beast! Science is what brought us out of the dark ages! Without it, we'd all be simple-minded peasant folk!" Anyone who thought otherwise did not pass his class.

Today he looked the part of a mad scientist even more than usual. His long, white beard had been forced into a face mask, creating a large, fuzzy bulge over his mouth and chin. An oversized pair of goggles rested on top of a small, hooked nose and a very bushy mustache, both of which protruded over the mask like an escaping animal. Jim wondered if the man could even see what he was doing.

But Mr. Merlin pointed to each of the chemical-filled test tubes before him with seeming confidence, and was just beginning to explain why these chemicals mustn't touch when Kronk, Jim's lab partner, leaned over, his hand cupped around his mouth.

"Psst! You don't remember what the homework was, do you?"

"Nope," muttered Jim, his mouth moving against his palm. "I did it too long ago."

Kronk looked confused. Then, as if he'd just understood a very important secret, he made a finger gun with his hand. "Riiiiiiiiiiiight," he said. "But really, what was the homework?"

Jim didn't dislike Kronk as much as he let off sometimes. Sure, it was a miracle the kid had made it to high school at all, considering he had trouble spelling his own name. And, sure, he had a habit of getting mixed up in the wrong crowd. But he really was a nice guy when it came down to it, so Jim tolerated his lack of brains and helped him out as often as he could.

Today, though, Jim wasn't feeling particularly tolerant of anything. Chef Louis was running Jim ragged as the restaurant's new kitchen boy, and this morning the junior was starting to feel it. He turned back to glance at Tarzan. Apparently his friend had had a rough night too; he was practically drowning in a puddle of sleep-drool. A shame, Jim thought. Jane was looking particularly pretty today. He smirked, turning back.

"Alright, everyone!" said Mr. Merlin with unbridled enthusiasm. "Let's get to work! You'll notice I've placed an identical selection of test tubes before you. Just remember what I said about combustible materials, and please use the _utmost_ caution—yes, Kronk, I'm talking to you."

Kronk's confidence was tangible as he spoke. "Don't worry, Mr. Marvin. I got this." He cracked his knuckles.

"Marvin! Marvin, Marvin, Marvin, Marvin—"

Suddenly, the classroom door opened. Heads turned, smiles appeared.

"Ariel!" someone cheered: Aladdin, seated back-left. Ariel winked.

Mr. Merlin, however, looked significantly less thrilled. "Late again, Miss Poole?"

She gave him a rueful smile, head bowed in an endearing display of shame. "I'm sorry."

That was all it took; Mr. Merlin smiled back (at least, he seemed to beneath the bushy mask). "Well, forgive and forget, I suppose. Take a seat—yes, right there, next to Mr. Hawkins, if you will. Those two need all the help they can get. Carry on, everyone! And don't look so disappointed, Aladdin. You and Milo are doing just fine."

As Ariel approached the table, Jim couldn't keep himself from gawking at her. She was wearing a white t-shirt, jean overall shorts, and black converse, and her hair had been pulled back in messy ponytail. It was a simple look, cute, and she was wearing it _well_. As if she'd heard his thoughts, she flashed him a perfect grin and set down her backpack beside him. "Hey, guys. What's up?"

Jim tried desperately to think of an answer. Wait—was he supposed to answer? Wasn't 'what's up' a rhetorical question? He swallowed.

"If you guys'll just stand back, I think I've got things under control." For once, Jim was ecstatic to hear Kronk's voice; having another male present seemed to reset something in his brain.

"Not much," Jim mumbled, finally.

"Hmm?" said Ariel.

"Oh. Nothing." Well, at least he'd answered the question. Eventually.

She pulled a chair up next to him, ignoring all basic social rules about personal space. Jim's breath caught. She smelled strongly of chlorine—in a good way. That's right, she was on the swim team, wasn't she? He'd once seen a photo of her on a board outside the locker rooms, flanked by the upperclassmen on her team. Rumor had it she could out-swim them all, even Walt High's all-time record holder, the now-college-undergrad John Smith.

"Hawkins, right?" Ariel held out a hand. Jim blinked, then took it.

"Yeah. Hawkins. I mean, Jim, it's Jim."

"Nice to meet you. So. I hear you're a skater."

"Oh, y-yeah. I skate." She nodded expectantly. He scoured his brain for more information. "Um, Tarzan taught me how. Back in junior high."

Ariel's eyes lit up. "Aw! That's so cute!" _Oops._ "Is that how you know each other?"

"I got it . . . I got it . . ." said Kronk, as he held one test tube precariously over another.

Jim opened his mouth, hoping something a little more manly would fall out this time. "Yeah, we went to Raymond Middle."

"Right, that's where my friend Jane went. Did you like it?"

These weren't hard questions. Still, Jim was having a terribly difficult time finding answers for them. "Yeah, sure. I guess."

Silence.

"So, I have a question," said Ariel. Jim must have looked alarmed, because the redhead quickly added, "It's about Tarzan."

". . . Oh."

She tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear and grinned deviously. "Is he seeing anyone?"

If Jim hadn't already known about Jane's crush, his heart would have sunk to the floor. Instead he grinned back. "Who wants to know?"

"Well, you didn't hear this from me, but . . ." Ariel nodded over her shoulder. Two tables behind her, Jane was dropping chemicals from one test tube to the other with incredible speed. With each drop, liquids fizzed, then vibrant, beautiful colors appeared like miniature clouds, spreading through the chemicals until they'd all been infected. Her partner, Naveen, was too busy winking at three blondes across the room to notice, but Mr. Merlin had. He applauded her success loudly.

"Oh, well done, Miss Porter! That's using the old noggin!"

Jim tried to act surprised. "Jane? Wait . . . are you saying she _likes_ him?"

Ariel shrugged. "I might be. I might not. Answer the question."

Jim leaned forward conspiratorially. "And what if he isn't seeing anyone?"

Ariel giggled, which filled Jim with so much self-satisfaction he thought his heart might explode. "Hey, you can't answer a question with another question! That's cheating!"

"Says who?"

"Says _me_."

Jim could hardly believe this was happening. In fact, part of him didn't, and as he sat there, picking out the twenty-something individual shades of blue in her eyes, he reasoned that this must be what it means to have an out-of-body experience. Either that or he'd just gone totally numb.

"Well. _I_ ship it. Don't you?"

" 'Ship it?' " Was that supposed to be slang? "I don't . . . oh, you mean Jane and Tarzan." He looked back at his friend, who, impressively enough, was still sleeping. "Yeah, I guess I could see it. There's just one problem."

"What?"

"They've never met."

Ariel rolled her eyes: as if _that_ was anything to be worried about. "Easily fixed," she insisted. "Just leave it to me."

"Still got it." Kronk was holding all five test tubes now between his fingers. Jim glanced over.

"Woah, Kronk, buddy! I don't think—"

But Kronk had already initiated his waterfall of doom. "Oh yeah," he said. "It's all coming together."

Famous last words. No sooner had he said them than there was a loud BANG. Glass shattered, students screamed, then the room began to fill with hot-pink smoke. Everyone leapt from their seats, coughing and sputtering and waving their hands in front of them.

"KRONK!" bellowed Mr. Merlin—there was no question as to who'd done it. "KRONK, YOU OAF! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE NOW?"

But Kronk had mysteriously vanished from sight. Jim peered through the rosy cloud, as puzzled as anyone. Meanwhile, Ariel had joined the horde of exiting students. He wasn't positive, but Jim thought he could see Aladdin's arm guiding her out.

 _Dang it._

"Psst!"

Jim looked down. To his surprise, his lab partner was squatting beneath the table, his colossal shoulders packed tightly into the small space. The bulky senior dragged a finger across his throat: yep, that would be his fate if Mr. Merlin ever found him there. Jim snorted.

"Well? Where is he? Where's he gone?" Mask discarded, beard unleashed, Mr. Merlin was making his way towards them. Thankfully, the mob of students was slowing him down considerably. Jim leaned down to warn Kronk, but the guy had already made himself scarce. Jim squinted through the pink fog. Wait—there he was, spread out against the far wall. He was doing some sort of dance, humming to himself, making his way to the door. He looked like a kid playing Spy.

Unfortunately, Mr. Merlin saw him too. "Ah— there! YOU! BOY! Come back here!"

But he was too late. As Kronk's made-up song reached its triumphant peak, the senior let out one final "Bah-dum BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" and escaped into the hallway.

Jim hurried after him, trying not to laugh. The last thing he heard as he left the classroom was the infuriated cry of his chemistry teacher: "BLOW ME TO BERMUDA!"

Class was over.

As gasping students filled the hallway, other classroom doors began to open. Soon every doorway was packed with curious, chattering faces.

"Jimbo! What happened?"

"Oh, hey, Tar." Jim peered over his friend's shoulder distractedly, his eyes searching for blue eyes and ruby-red hair. "Hey, have you seen . . . ?"

But Ariel was nowhere to be found.


	5. Chapter 5

A nasty flu bug had cut Lumiere's team of chefs down to four, meaning Jim's duties (and hours) had doubled for the evening. Jim wouldn't have minded, normally. Heaven knew he could do with the extra cash. He just had one problem: a three-page paper due in Mrs. Anita Radcliffe's class the next day. The topic was 'something you'd change about Walt High and why,' and he'd been banking on the hour before work to throw it together.

Well, one less hour of sleep wouldn't kill him, he reasoned as he pulled on his shoes. Besides, he had astronomy first thing the next day; he'd make up for the lost hour of sleep then. His plan set, he mumbled his usual excuse to his mom—"Going to Tarzan's, be back later"—and headed out.

The walk to work was a depressing one. The weather was nice, the scenery pretty, but every house on every street was bustling with dinner preparations as fathers and mothers returned home from work. One home in particular caught Jim's attention, and he stopped. Dad was huge, Mom significantly less so with short, flipped brown hair. They were attempting to get their kids, a girl with straight black hair, a boy who looked just like his dad, and a baby with a single tuft of blonde hair, to sit down for dinner—without much luck. Chaos ensued. Still, Jim couldn't bring himself to look away. What he wouldn't have given, he thought, to be in there with them, fighting and yelling and joking around. He watched them until his envy boiled into anger.

Work, it turned out, was no less chaotic. First, there was Chef Boucher, lamenting yet another plate of untouched food: "I work and I slave all day long, and for what? A culinary masterpiece _gone to waste_!" At the stove, Chef Silver was experimenting, as usual: "Jimbo! Yer just in time! Come have a taste of me famous Bonzabeast Stew." Whatever _that_ was. Jim passed.

Meanwhile, Chef Tatou, who seemed to have taken a liking to Jim, insisting that he call her 'Colette,' was the very picture of efficiency. Her hands were a blur as she chopped onions, sliced tomatoes, seared meat, and whipped cream. Jim watched her in awe.

"HAWKINS! THANK GOODNESS!"

Jim cried out in horror: Chef Louis was careening towards him with open arms. With nowhere to run, Jim braced himself as his boss nearly bowled him over.

"Hey! Get off me!"

"Hawkins! Oh, Hawkins, you have arrived! We are so very short on help tonight, and Monsieur Lumiere is in a terrible mood! Even Linguini is having to cook—although it would seem his talent has blossomed overnight. _Très étrange_."

Jim peered over Chef Louis' shoulder. Sure enough, there was Linguini, chopping and stirring and mixing away, looking just as surprised as anyone. Hmm.

Chef Louis released the kitchen boy. "But now zat you have come we are saved!" He wiped a tear from his eye. "So, Monsieur Hawkins, I will put you to work. As zey say, chop chop!" He chuckled at his own joke.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

The next hour went by in a blur.

" _Tu t'en sors?_ "

Jim started. How long had he been staring at Colette? He blushed. "Huh?"

The pretty chef laughed. "How are those potatoes coming?"

"Oh. Fine."

She smiled. "Here. Let me show you how it's done." Before Jim could object (not that he would have), Colette had seated herself beside him, taken his hands in hers, and was gliding the peeler across the potato with a finesse Jim was sure he'd never be able to replicate. He hardly cared; Colette had the softest, prettiest hands he'd ever seen. As far as he was concerned she could keep them there as long as she liked.

"There. Now you try." Jim did his best to copy her long, clean swipes. "Not bad." She winked. "I think you were born to be more than a janitor, don't you?"

Jim shrugged dismissively, but he couldn't help but smile. His thought flew back to the days when he'd build things with his dad, to all of the sketches of boards and bikes and cars that he'd wanted so badly to create one day. Those dreams seemed out of his reach now, but he appreciated the vote of confidence—especially from someone so talented.

Suddenly there was a CRASH that turned every head in the kitchen. The sound had come from the dining room.

"Oh no," said Colette.

Two seconds later, Lumiere flew through the kitchen doors. "We have a problem," he announced. "One of our servers has dropped a tray!"

"How many plates?" asked Colette.

"Five."

" _Oh non!_ " moaned Chef Boucher.

"What can we do?"

Lumiere examined his team. "Alright. We have to move quickly. Colette!"

"Monsieur!"

"I need beef ragout, cheese soufflé, pie and pudding—"

" _En flambe?_ "

" _Oui._ Jim! Are you here?"

Jim set his peeler aside. "Yes, sir."

"Ah, _très bien_. Come with me, please—and bring that dust pan with you. The rest of you, double time! And remember: the dinner here is never second best!"

There was a hearty chorus of ' _oui monsieurs_ ' before the lively clatter of a busy kitchen returned. Monsieur Lumiere gestured to his young employer, who followed him dubiously.

Entering the dining hall was like stepping onto another planet; both the restaurant and its kitchen were clean, and both smelled delicious, but the glimmering crystal, the polished marble, and the gentle rumble of pleasant conversation made Jim uncomfortable for reasons he couldn't explain. Maybe it was the fact that almost no one was wearing anything under six-hundred dollars. Maybe it was their carefree expressions, their stress-free demeanors as they sipped their champagne. Whatever it was, it was making Jim's blood boil. He glowered bitterly.

Then a familiar face caught is attention. He squinted. Was that Belle and her father seated six tables over?

"Ah, here." said Lumiere, pointing towards the disaster area. "As I said, your assistance is needed."

That was about the biggest understatement Jim had ever heard. Food was splattered about like paint on a canvas, plate pieces disseminated, and in the midst of it all stood the culprit: Mulan, a girl Jim recognized from school. She was doing her best to both clean up the mess and apologize profusely, but was far too flustered to do either effectively. Without waiting for instructions, Jim stepped in.

"Here, let me get that." He picked up a plate and placed it on the fallen tray. "Rough day, huh?"

Mulan looked close to tears. "I should never have left home this morning."

"Well, that makes two of us." He used a fallen spoon to scoop remains off of the floor. "Were they pretty mad, then?"

"Who?"

He pulled a face. "Whoever ordered the gray stuff."

She almost smiled. "They were actually really nice about it. Charlotte—I think that's her name—kept trying to help me clean up. Then Tiana rushed her and her dad to another table. They're over there."

Mulan nodded towards a table where Charlotte La Bouff, a cute blonde in a sleek pink dress, was chatting her father's ear off. She, apparently, was totally unfazed by the delay. Her father, on the other hand, seemed a little more disappointed; he was gaping sadly at the empty bread basket before him, mustache drooping miserably. He didn't seem angry, though, which was good. Jim could think of a few people in town who'd have had Mulan fired on the spot.

"They look fine to me. See? You're good."

Mulan stood, lifting the mess-filled tray with marked apprehension. "What will I tell my father if they fire me?" she said, almost too quiet to be heard.

Jim took the tray from her hands. He wanted to say that he wouldn't know, that he wasn't exactly an expert when it came to father-child communication. But this was no time for bitter comments. So, he smiled instead. "I'm sure he's proud of you."

Mulan gave him a half-smile. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

She left to clean herself up while Jim carried the tray back to the kitchen. On his way, he looked back to the place where he thought he'd seen Belle. Sure enough, there she was, looking, Jim thought, especially beautiful in a blue and white dress. But something seemed off. She looked frustrated—angry, even. That's when Jim noticed that Belle's father had stepped out for a moment, and in his place sat trouble with a capital G:

Gaston.

Tray in hands, Jim made his way over.

"What do you say we head over to the gym, take a look at my trophies?" said Gaston.

"Maybe some other time."

"Is this guy bothering you?"

Belle and Gaston looked up with a start. "Bothering her?" Gaston laughed. "This is the day her dreams come true. Wouldn't you say so, Belle?"

Belle rolled her eyes. "What do you know about my dreams, Gaston?"

"Plenty! Picture this—"

Jim stepped forward. "I think it's time for you to go."

Something sparked in Gaston's eyes, something dangerous. The senior stood, towering over the kitchen boy. "What's the matter, Hawkins? Jealous?"

Jim laughed mirthlessly. "Jealous? Me? Of what?"

Gaston cracked his knuckles.

"Gaston, stop," said Belle. "My father will be back any minute, and—"

"And what?" said Gaston. "Your father's a lunatic. What's he going to do?"

"Don't talk about my father that way!"

The burly senior ignored her. "You see, Hawkins, Belle needs someone who can protect her, take care of her. _You_ , now"—he put a massive arm around Jim's shoulders—"you've got no money, no future. The way I see it, you're about the worst thing that could ever happen to her—or any girl, for that matter. So, kitchen boy, I suggest you mind your own business."

Jim's knuckles were white as he gripped the tray. He shrugged Gaston off. "Get out."

That did it. Gaston snatched a handful of Jim's shirt and shook him, sending the tray and its contents crashing to the floor. Then, with an alarming lack of effort, he lifted Jim off of the ground and slammed him against a marble pillar. Somebody screamed. Everyone was staring. "Maybe your ears don't work so well," Gaston hissed.

Jim grunted. "Yeah"—he coughed—"too bad my nose works just fine."

"Why you—" Jim went flying into another table like a javelin. With a sickening THUD, his head slammed against the table's hard edge. Stars appeared. His vision doubled, then tripled. All sounds were submerged in a high pitched ringing. Someone rushed to his side. "Jim! _Jim!_ Can you hear me?"

A crowd was quickly gathering around them, but Belle ignored them, whipping out her phone and dialing a number Jim could only guess was 911. Then she began to describe the situation to someone in detail. Meanwhile, Gaston was nowhere to be seen. "Belle"—Jim slowly got to his feet—"stop, j-just stop."

She touched his arm. "Jim, I don't think—"

But Jim shook her off. His head between his hands, he staggered towards the kitchens. Whispers followed him. The world spun. As he stumbled through the swinging door, he could still hear Gaston's voice echoing in his head: _no money, no future._

"Oh my goodness! Jim, what happened?"

"Jimbo! Y'alright?"

He ignored his co-workers and made for the back door, pausing as he opened it. Once he went through those doors, he wouldn't be coming back, of that he was certain. And he realized in that moment that he'd kind of miss these guys, Colette most of all. But his head was pounding and his embarrassment was too much to bear. So, without so much as a final glance, Jim disappeared into the night.

* * *

"James Pleiades Hawkins! Oh my goodness, _are you_ _hurt_?"

Jim put a hand to his head. It was still throbbing, a problem made worse by sound and light, but he was fairly certain there wasn't physical evidence of his injury. How could she possibly know these things at a glance? "I'm fine," he said. "I was just skating. Minor accident."

Sarah Hawkins pulled her son through the front door and touched his face. "Well, did you go see a doctor? You didn't. I'll call Dr. Doppler, he'll know what to do."

"Mom, no, I'm fine. Besides, Dr. Doppler isn't a doctor. He has a doctorate, it's different." She ignored him and reached for the phone. "Mom." He took his mother's hands. "Mom, _stop_."

Her eyes were heavy with worry. Clearly this wasn't the most stressful thing that had happened to her that day. "Were you really out skating?" she asked. He walked to the stairs. "Jim. Jim, look at me." He didn't. "I give you your space. I let you stay out till all hours. I let you _lie_ to me, but . . ." She put a hand on his shoulder. "I don't want to lose you."

Jim felt so guilty he could have thrown up. "Mom," he said, "you won't. Trust me. I'm doing just fine."

With that, he kissed her cheek and headed upstairs.

As the old Dell computer slowly clicked and whirred to life, Jim rubbed his temples. His head was still killing him, but he had to get through this paper, then he could sleep for eternity. But what could he write on? More parking? Better food? Eliminating School Spirit day? Ten minutes later, he opened up Word and put his fingers to the keyboard.

 _Bullies_ , he typed, _and why they suck._


	6. Chapter 6

For the next few days, Mrs. Hawkins kept close tabs on her son. Every morning she'd see him out the door, and every night she'd sit him down and ask him how his day went. She messaged him at least twice during the hours in between. Jim loved his mom enough to tolerate this up to a point, but after a week enough was enough. So, the next Wednesday evening, he escaped through his window and headed into town, his phone on silent.

He'd only ever visited Tarzan at work twice. There was a reason for that: as he walked through the doors of Waltville Animal Rescue Shelter, a horde of fuzzy, friendly faces rushed to greet him; he wanted to take home every last one of them.

"Dodger! Hey there, buddy. How ya doin'? Aw, Duchess, how's it going, sweetheart? Rita! Hey, girl! Woah—down, Pongo! Down! _Down!_ " Jim playfully shoved the Dalmatian away and looked around. "You've got some new faces here, Tar."

"Yeah, things are getting pretty crazy. Come on, I'll introduce you to everyone." Jim gave each of his friends another good petting before following Tarzan.

Behind the front desk stretched a long hallway of cages and pens. They were utterly spotless—Tarzan made sure of that—and most of the animals at least had a pen-mate or two. Still, the look in the animals' eyes was heartbreaking, and Jim was running out of reasons not to take them all home. He knew, though, deep down that his mom would never agree to having a pet in the house. He sighed. If he was going to start spending evenings here again, he'd have to get some serious self-control.

Tarzan began the tour with a pen on the left. "Duchess had kittens a few weeks ago," he said, smiling. "Marie, Toulouse, and Berlioz. Thomas is a stray. So's Oliver."

"What about . . . ?" Jim pointed back towards the front desk, on which lounged two of the fattest, meanest-looking felines he'd ever seen in his life.

"Felicia and Lucifer. Not exactly our friendliest guests." Jim and Tarzan turned a corner and started down another hallway. "You know most of our dogs, of course. Lady, here, is new, but she won't be here long. She's got a collar."

Jim approached the cocker spaniel's pen with caution. She was cowering against the back wall, trembling with fear from head to paw.

Jim knelt down, linking his fingers between the wire. "Hey there, girl. You okay?"

"You can hold her if you want," said Tarzan. "She probably needs it." He took the keys off of his belt and unlocked the door.

Jim held out his hand. "Come on. Come on, don't be scared. I'm not gonna hurt you." The dog just watched him at first, then, slowly, she began to inch her way towards him. He lifted her out. "That's right, good puppy. How'd a nice girl like you end up here, anyway?"

"A pack of strays had cornered her on the other side of town," said Tarzan. "She was muzzled, so she couldn't defend herself."

"That's _awful_."

"I know. There was another dog with her, I think, but he chased after the strays before I could bring him in too."

The quivering dog curled up against Jim's shoulder. Who would muzzle such a gentle animal? he wondered. And whoever it was, did they really deserve to get her back? His hold on her tightened until, finally, her shaking subsided.

They continued their tour a little while later. "Here's where we keep our other animals—mice, rats, you name it. Ratigan, here, he bites like crazy. Bernard and Bianca are inseparable. Basil, though. _He's_ the one you've really gotta watch out for. Clever little guy. You wouldn't _believe_ how elaborate his escape attempts get."

Jim highly doubted a mouse could do anything 'elaborate,' but he supposed you never knew.

"And finally . . ." They'd reached a back door at the end of the second hallway. Tarzan unlocked it, gesturing for Jim to follow him. "We finished the backyard."

What Jim saw there made his jaw drop, for what had recently been a large area of empty pens and cages three months ago was now a good-sized zoo. Foxes, raccoons, even a bear cub were gallivanting about in what seemed to be their own little corners of paradise—separated, of course, by walls of cement. "This is crazy! What's a bear doing in here?"

"Koda's not the craziest call we've gotten."

Jim turned. A tall Native American woman had appeared in the doorway: Pocahontas, the owner of the shelter. She was striking, in a word, with her fierce eyes and full lips. But her long, black hair was arguably her most alluring quality. Normally she wore it loose, but today she'd braided it into cornrows and pulled them back in a ponytail. Jim couldn't help staring. If she weren't so kind, she'd probably be the most intimidating woman he'd ever encountered.

"Someone phoned in the other day about a neighbor lady with a couple of alligators," she continued. Then she chuckled, as if gators were no big deal. " _Them_ we had shipped straight to Devil's Bayou."

"You serious?" Jim peered over the wall at the tiny bear cub, who had grabbed his own feet, and was rolling around in a pile of soft woodchips. "So, what's this little guy's story?" he asked.

"His mom was killed a few miles north. We'll be sending him to a bear rehabilitation facility in a few days, poor thing."

Jim thought his heart might break then and there. And here he thought _he_ had problems.

Suddenly a chorus of barking filled the air. Someone squealed.

"Uh oh." Pocahontas looked to her favorite employee. "Can you take this one? Robin and Marian are due for a checkup."

"I'm on it," said Tarzan. He and Jim hurried back inside.

Jim paled.

Ariel was on her knees, giggling blissfully as she allowed the rescue shelter's inhabitants to lick her to death. Meanwhile, Jane was holding something high over her head. Jim supposed he could have been wrong, but it looked very much like a to-go box. In any case, the resident Great Dane, Einstein, was irrepressibly interested in discovering its contents.

"Oh, oh dear," said Jane. "Yes, um, hello to you too. Look, I'm sure we're going to be marvelous good friends, but _see here_! I've got something in this box that will _not_ appreciate being gnawed on! So, if you _don't_ mind, I—"

She froze. Tarzan had stepped between her and the Dane, and was reaching over her head, his fingers wrapped around the box. "May I?" he asked.

Jane went fifty shades of red. "Oh, yes," she squeaked. "Of course."

He took it from her gently. "Sit, Einstein. Stay." The dog was shockingly obedient, as if Tarzan had commanded him in his own language.

"Ariel and I found him outside of a restaurant," Jane explained. "I think he may have hit a window, or something, but you could still see his little heart beating inside his chest. I didn't know what to do, but I couldn't just _leave_ him there!"

Tarzan cracked the to-go box open. He smiled. "That was very kind of you."

Jane looked dizzy.

Suddenly something shot out of the box like a bullet. It hovered in the air for a second, wings beating furiously. Then, its energy drained, and it dropped to the ground with a tiny thud.

"A hummingbird!" said Jim.

"Uh-huh!" Ariel had hoisted herself up onto the desk, allowing her legs to dangle off the side.

Jim cleared his throat. "Uh, hey, what's up?"

"Nothing much," she replied, but she nodded towards Jane and Tarzan, her eyebrows waggling.

Jim rolled his eyes.

"Lucifer, NO," said Tarzan suddenly, and he rushed towards the fallen bird. Jim and Ariel turned, but Jane had already snatched Lucifer up, and was struggling to hold onto him as Tarzan played rescuer. Eventually, the cat let out an enraged howl and scurried away, hissing and spitting as it went.

Everyone rushed forward.

Tarzan had the tiny emerald bird in his hands. It's wings were outspread and its heart thumped wildly as it stared them all down with ferocious black eyes. "Shh, shh, shh," said Tarzan. "Nobody move. He'll be fine. He just needs to reorient himself. I'm gonna put him in the back so the cats won't get him." He looked at Jane. "Wanna come?"

"Yes!" said Jane, a little too eagerly. Tarzan beamed and led her back.

Which left Jim and Ariel. Alone. "Well _that_ was lucky!" said Ariel.

"What was?"

"I didn't even realize Tarzan worked here. Jane _loves_ animals! I'd have brought her here forever ago if I'd known!"

Jim smiled. "Well, that makes two of them. Tarzan's . . ." He paused. "Let's just say he's good at what he does."

Ariel nudged him with her foot. "So, what are _you_ doing here?"

"Me?" Jim wasn't quite sure. His latest human interactions hadn't exactly been pleasant, and since he still hadn't been able to replace his board, the shelter had seemed like the next best means of escape. That wasn't, of course, what he told Ariel. "I was bored. And I like dogs, so, yeah."

"Fair enough."

Tarzan and Jane reappeared, now deep in conversation.

"And Tarzan," Jane announced, "he took my boot!"

The story must have been hilarious, because Tarzan nearly busted a gut. He wiped his eyes. "That's awesome."

Jim and Ariel exchanged a look: _I ship it_ , it said. _I ship it hard._

* * *

Jim had been drawing when Belle took the seat next to him in Ms. Tremaine's class. Around them, students giggled and pointed, their conclusions clearly drawn. He tried to ignore them.

"Hello," said Belle.

Jim didn't respond. Considering he'd been thrown into a table the last time they'd talked, he wasn't exactly sure how.

"Look," she said quietly, "I just wanted to say thank you, and that I hope you're okay. That's all."

He looked at her then. He _wanted_ to say something, anything, but two rows behind her, Gaston was watching, waiting for Jim to utter a single syllable to the girl he'd called dibs on. Jim felt the sting on the back of his head like it was new. He looked away. "Don't mention it."

At five minutes past the hour, with no teacher present, the rumble of classroom chatter reached its peak. Jim glanced across the room. Aladdin and Ariel were providing half of the room's noise, their arms moving around in a similarly-animated way as they spoke. Jim stared at them for several seconds too long. He wondered how long they'd been friends—if they'd ever been anything more—and just how long it would take for him to feel that comfortable around Ariel (if such a thing was even possible).

"What's that?"

In his daze, him hadn't noticed Belle lean over to look at his work. He closed his notebook instinctively. "Nothing."

She smiled. "Aw, come on."

He studied her face. She seemed genuinely interested. Still, his designs were a part of him few people saw. Belle may as well have been asking him to stand up and strip. He shook his head slowly.

"I'm not Ms. Tremaine. I won't make you show the whole class," Belle promised. "Please?"

He sighed a good, long sigh. "Fine. But I drew it forever ago, so it's really—"

She took the notebook carefully from his hands. "This is . . . amazing." Jim watched her as she traced the lines of the sail with her fingers. "This is a blueprint, isn't it? You're actually going to build this."

Jim smiled a little. "It wouldn't be that hard. If you just weld the jets between the back wheels—you'd take the back wheels off, of course—then you could . . ." He stopped himself. "Whatever."

Belle smirked. "You are totally forgetting that I'm a nerd." She handed the notebook back. "Have you built any of your designs before?"

Jim shrugged. "When I was a kid." Belle's jaw actually dropped. "Although, I did help this one guy fix his motorcycle up a few months ago. Well"—he rubbed the back of his neck—"trip it up, actually. I think we increased the speed capacity by a good fifteen percent."

She beamed.

"Okay, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Are you still working at Lumiere's?"

He gave her a flat look. "What do _you_ think?"

"Good." She tapped his notebook with the tip of her pencil. "Because I have a business proposition for you, if you're interested."

Nostrils flaring, eyes sharp as knives, Ms. Tremaine entered the classroom, and silence immediately ensued. But even as she prowled the front of the classroom, scouting for students to inflict her wrath upon, Jim found he couldn't bear the suspense. With exaggerated stealth (that nearly sent Belle into hysterics), he passed her a small sheet of paper.

She opened it.

It was a phone number.


	7. Chapter 7

Wedged between woods and an urban jungle, Belle's cottage was a beautiful standout in a dreary part of town. Her father's shop, on the other hand, was not. A haphazardly structured extension of their home, it fit right in with the neighboring buildings, which were old and odd and falling apart. Ah, the Wonderland district. Jim wondered how long the Laroses had inhabited this strange part of town.

Just to make sure this was really it, he checked his phone for the fiftieth time. But Belle's instructions were clear:

 _Follow Wonder Lane until you've reached_  
 _Tulgey Wood. See you soon!_

Jim wrinkled his nose. Whatever 'business proposition' the senior had in mind for him, he wasn't quite sold on it yet. But being both broke and jobless, choosiness wasn't exactly a luxury he could afford. So, even when an explosion sent smoke billowing through the windows and doors, he shifted the satchel around his shoulders and braved an entrance.

"Hey, Belle? Belle, you're okay in there, right?" He waved his arms in front of him. He could barely make out a short, spherical figure—in a tutu?—bumbling and bumping around in the haze. Several objects clattered to the floor as it staggered into them, including a hubcap, which wheeled passed Jim and straight through the still-open door.

"Dog gonnit!" said the figure. "How on earth did that happen?"

Gradually, the smoke began to clear, and Jim realized he'd been standing in a large, cluttered work space. He gaped. He'd never seen so many gadgets and gizmos in all his life! Machines of every size and shape filled every available space in the shop, along with several thick, wooden work tables and a random assortment of crates and boxes. Sawdust and metal scraps littered the remaining space. Jim turned full circle. Then he found himself face to face with the head mechanic himself.

Maurice Larose was not actually in a tutu, thank goodness. Somehow or other, though, the white-haired mechanic had managed to tangle himself in the remains of a barrel, which were wrapped around his middle like a ridiculous skirt. The man yanked them off—and with them his pants, revealing heart-patterned underwear.

" _Ahem._ Uh, sir?"

Maurice turned. "Oh! Hello, there!" He refastened his trousers. "You must be the help I've been needing!"

"Oh, actually, I—"

"Well, don't get too excited about this—this hunk of junk." He kicked the giant contraption beside him, which rattled and clanked unhappily. Jim cocked his head to one side. To Maurice's credit, he'd had never seen a machine quite like it, whatever it was. Upon further inspection, however, he realized that it was completely made up of recognizable parts, including a bicycle, a speed boat motor, a barber chair, and the top-half of a hooded hair dryer. What could it possibly do? he wondered.

"I'm giving up!" cried Maurice. "I'll never get this boneheaded contraption to work!"

Jim reached out to touch it. "What is this thing?"

"Well, if I ever get it running, it's supposed to be a . . . well, here! Let me show you!"

The mechanic grabbed Jim's arm and yanked him forward before the junior could object. Then he forced him into the barber chair, strapped his arms to the armrests, and waddled over towards the bicycle, singing cheerfully to himself: "High-ho, high-ho, it's off to work we go!" Jim looked up. To his horror, the hooded dryer was armed to the teeth with razors, which gleamed menacingly mere inches from his skull.

This couldn't be good.

"Alright, what are we waiting for?" said Maurice, hopping onto the bicycle seat.

"Wait, wait, wait, what's this thing gonna do?"

But Maurice had already started to peddle, his short, stout body teetering back and forth like a spherical pendulum. "Hold still, now! Ready? This shouldn't hurt a bit." Slowly, the machine began to shake and hum, its gut heating like a waking dragon.

"Ready?" Jim exclaimed. "Ready for _what?_ "

"A haircut, of course! Here we go!"

Suddenly, the razors unleashed with a terrifying CHING. Then, slowly, the hood began to descend. Closer, closer . . .

"Wait, I didn't agree to this! Lemme out! HEY!"

"Papa?"

Both heads turned. To Jim's relief, Belle was standing in a doorway across the room. "Belle!" cried Jim. "Hey, get me outta this thing!"

The machine groaned as it came to a stop. Belle gasped. "Is it finally working, Papa?"

With a disappointed huff, Maurice clambered off of the bike with the grace of a ballet-dancing hippo. "Well, not exactly. I was just showing your friend here, uh— oh. What did you say your name was, son?"

Jim sighed. "I didn't. It's Jim."

Maurice smiled proudly. "Jim here wanted to see how my Barber-O-Matic works!"

Belle beamed. "It's his greatest invention yet!"

"Hmm," said Jim. "I'll bet. So, could one of you maybe—?"

"I was thinking we'd take a little off the top," Maurice continued, patting Jim's head, "maybe get rid of that ponytail thing in the back."

Belle studied Jim. "I like it. Good idea."

"Okay, nobody is going to _touch_ my hair!"

Belle laughed. She was in skinny jeans, Vans, and an Ingrid Michaelson T-shirt. The Vans had been hand-painted with a gorgeously detailed rose pattern. They suited her, Jim thought, and he wondered if she'd painted them herself. "Sorry, I should have warned you," she said, freeing her classmate.

Jim rubbed his wrists testily. "Yeah, no kidding," he muttered.

"So, this one's an inventor, you say?" said Maurice, clapping said-inventor on the shoulder.

"Definitely," said Belle. "You should see his blueprints!"

"You have blueprints? For what? Did you bring them with you?"

Jim opened his satchel and pulled out his sketchbook, although he didn't hand it over immediately. Sharing his creations was an unnerving process, and one that would probably take a while to get used to. It felt as though he were opening a door to his mind that had been locked for a very long time, only the whole world was watching, waiting to laugh at what lay inside. Feeling his mind changing quickly, he clutched the sketchbook against his chest, but Belle's smile was so encouraging, and her father's eyes so filled with enthusiasm, Jim found he couldn't help but trust the quirky duo. He relinquished the book, though not without shooting them each a wary glance.

Maurice handled the book as if it were an ancient artifact. "Oh, oh _my_! Yes, these . . . these are _fantastic_!"

"They're just sketches," said Jim hurriedly. "But, uh, I did build that one." He stopped Maurice's hand mid-page-turn and pointed to a motorized-scooter design. "The scooter was a Christmas present. But it bugged me that would only go as fast as I could kick off, so I added a motor. Then, you know, I reattached this here, moved this around, and . . . yeah. No problem."

"How old were you?" asked Belle.

"Um, eight, I think."

Maurice's tone was almost reverent: "Amazing."

Belle began to circle Jim. "What else are you hiding in there?" she asked, reaching for his satchel. He swung it away from her. By now he'd had a good look at the inventions surrounding him, and all of them, regardless of their size or their stage of completion, were more than a little impressive, Yeah, no way was he showing them anything else of his _now_.

"Oh, it's nothing," he started, but Maurice had snuck up behind him, and was already going through the satchel with childlike enthusiasm. " _Hey!_ "

The mechanic's eyes widened. He pulled out an orb the size of a softball. It was a warm shade of gold, intricately decorated with a series of circles and lines that connected like the paths of a constellation. As he turned it in his hands, it seemed to emit a celestial light, which illuminated his and his daughter's astonished expressions.

" _Incredible._ "

Jim took considerable pride in their reactions. Sheesh, he hadn't even turned the thing on yet.

"How does it work?" they asked in unison.

"Well—"

But just then the front door opened, and Jim noticed for the first time the elaborate system used to announce incoming customers. Ropes pulled levers, levers turned knobs, then finally—BING!

And in walked a face Jim knew all too well.

"Aladdin!" said Maurice. "Well, well, what brings you here?"

"Hey, Maurice, Belle. What's up?" The Street Rat's drummer went in for a hug with the pretty brunette. To Jim's surprise, Belle returned it warmly.

"How's the Magic Carpet?" she asked.

"She's right outside. I don't know what's going on. She was running just fine until yesterday. Then all the dashboard lights started going on and off, weird stuff. You know."

"Wait, 'Magic Carpet?' "

Aladdin looked at Jim like he had no idea where he'd come from. "Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?"

"He goes to Walt High with us," said Belle.

"Oh, yeah, sure." The drummer held out a hand. "The name's Aladdin. My friends call me Al."

". . . Jim."

"Cool." He turned to Maurice. "So, do you think you have a minute? I can always come back later."

Maurice and Belle exchanged glances. "Actually," said Maurice, "I've got a mountain of work to do. Very, very busy. _Jim_ , on the other hand"—he pushed Jim forward—"needs something to do! He's a genius. A prodigy, actually. Well, hah, I don't pay him ten bucks an hour for nothing!"

Jim's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. " _Ten bucks?_ "

Maurice winked.

Jim wasn't sure why his jobs always seemed to start off this way: suddenly, and without any kind of pre-hiring negotiation. He decided that he must have a 'walk all over me' sign stuck to him somewhere. But whatever. This wasn't Lumiere's. This wasn't kitchen boy duty. This was a chance, a _real chance_ to do something _great_. And for ten bucks an hour? What could there possibly be to negotiate?

He shot Belle a smile.

"Sweet, yeah, I'm down!" said Al. "So, whaddya say, Jim? You ready to meet the Magic Carpet?"

"Yeah," said Jim. "Yeah, lead the way."

* * *

"He named his _car?_ "

Belle turned the page of her latest read. She was seated very comfortably on the Barber-O-Matic, her legs draped over the armrest, glasses resting on the end of her nose. "Mm hm."

Jim snorted. "Why?"

She turned another page. "People do crazy things when they're in love."

"Yeah, well, he's in love with that car, alright."

She smirked. "Give him a chance. He's not the guy he pretends to be."

Jim snorted again. He _highly_ doubted that. But he didn't argue as he reached for a rag that was hanging from one of the machines. He began to wipe the oil from his hands. Across the room, Maurice was working tirelessly on one of his many inventions. This particular one, which he claimed would chop firewood all on its own, was giving him an inordinate amount of trouble (as did they all, Jim noticed). But if there was one thing Maurice wasn't, it was a quitter. So, even as he cursed the heavens, metal continued to clang and sparks continued to fly. Jim decided that this—the clutter, clamor, all of it—was exactly what he wanted for himself one day.

"So, did you have fun?" asked Belle.

Jim tossed the rag aside. "Yeah, actually. More than I've had in a long time."

"I'm glad! Aladdin certainly seemed happy with your work. So did Papa. You're really, really talented, I hope you realize that."

"Yeah, well . . ." He shrugged. Then he pulled up a wooden crate and took a seat beside her. "Hey, um, thanks. You know, for all this."

Belle set her book down. "My pleasure," she said.

"So, what's the book about?"

The senior's eyes lit up instantly. Clearly too few people ever asked her this question. "It's one of my favorites! Far off places, daring sword fights, magic spells, and a prince in disguise!"

"Yeah? What's it called?"

She held it up. " _The Princess Bride_. This is my third time through. Have you read it?"

"I've seen the movie. Does that count?"

Her mouth quirked in a mirthless smile. No, no it did not. "Do you like to read?"

"Who, me? Sure. Especially when I was a kid. My mom would always read me this one book over and over. _Treasure Island_. You read it?" Belle nodded enthusiastically: of course she had. "My favorite part was when the pirates take over the ship. I always wanted to be a pirate."

Belle grinned bashfully. "Me too."

"What? No way."

"Look, just because I'm a girl—"

"Hey, no, that's not what I meant."

She chuckled, tapping her heels against the side of the crate. "I've wanted to be a lot of things over the years."

Jim nodded, and for a moment, they were silent. "So, how long ago was 'pirate' on the list?"

She blushed. "Like, last summer."

"Hah! That's awesome."

Suddenly, there was a loud CLANG, and Maurice let out a slew of irate exclamations. "Belle! BELLE!" he cried, wheeling himself out from under his invention.

"Papa! Are you alright?"

The mechanic sitting up, clutching at his forehead, which was puffy and red where he'd apparently whacked it. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just get me that dog-headed clincher thing, will you? I think I broke something. _Ooh_ , that smarts!"

Jim stepped forward as Belle hurried off to fetch the tool her father had requested. What was that thing the old mechanic was sitting on? "Um, sir?" But when Maurice looked up, Jim nearly jumped out of his skin. The goggles his employer was wearing had magnified his eyes to four times their normal size, making him look—Jim hated to admit—very much like the lunatic Gaston had described at Lumiere's. Jim stifled a laugh.

"Oh, Jim, listen, _amazing_ work on the Magic Carpet. Aladdin was very impressed. He even threw in a tip for you!"

"He did? Wow, that's great!" Jim resisted the urge to ask how much. "Um, hey, can I just—? What's that thing you're sitting on?" He gestured towards the object Maurice had been using as a mechanic's creeper.

"What, this?" Maurice rolled off of it, standing. Just as Jim had suspected: the mechanic had been sitting on a smooth, wooden longboard. It was a nice one, too, he concluded as he bent down to inspect it. Varnished but unpainted, sturdy but lightweight. Jim examined it from every angle. "How long have you had this?" he asked.

Maurice smiled proudly. "Let's see, I must have made it when I was . . . oh, your age, probably."

"Wait, you . . . you _made_ this?"

"Yep! Didn't use it much, though. As soon as I finished"—he snapped his fingers—"just like that, onto the next project. Guess I'm more of a builder than a consumer. Still, she's a beauty, isn't she?"

Jim ran his fingers along the board's smooth finish. "What's in the core? Foam?"

"That's right."

"I figured. Wow . . ."

Jim didn't see the warm smile that crossed his employer's face. "If you like it all that much," Maurice said, "it's yours."

"But, sir!"

"I insist."

Jim's throat was taught with gratitude, and he tried to clear it. "Wow, um, I don't . . . I don't even know what to say. My dad, he—"

"Here you go, Papa."

Jim leapt to his feet, wiping the emotion from his face with a hand. How long Belle had been standing there?

"Thank you, dear." Maurice gave his daughter a loving pat on the cheek. "Alright, enough chit-chat. Gotta get back to work! This machine won't build itself, you know!" With that, the goggled mechanic shimmied back under his project.

Belle and Jim returned to the Barber-O-Matic. For a few minutes, they were silent, Jim with his board, Belle with her book.

"He really is a genius," said Belle finally.

Jim just nodded. He was still gazing at his gift, eyes stinging with tears he wouldn't allow to fall. The last board he'd owned had been a present from his dad, the last one he'd given Jim before he'd left. Jim had seriously considered throwing the thing away, but as much anger as he harbored for his old man, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Unlike the empty space in his parents' bed, the empty driveway (they'd bought an ancient Corolla since then), the board didn't symbolize what he'd done to their family. It reminded Jim of what their family had once had, what they _could_ have had, if he'd just stuck around. And that, as much as Jim hated to admit it, was the one thing Jim never wanted to lose.

Maybe this new board could mean there were better things to come.

"So, what about you?"

Jim sucked in a breath, trying to steady his emotions. "What about me?" he answered.

"What did you want to be, growing up? Besides a pirate, of course."

Jim shifted uncomfortably. "Oh, I dunno. I've never really thought about it." Belle didn't buy this, and she told him so with a look. "Alright, _fine_. I've always loved building things. Pulling them apart, putting them back together, you know. That kind of stuff."

"Is that what you'll study at college, then? Electrical engineering, or something?"

Shame flooded Jim's cheeks. "I'm not going to college," he said simply.

The roar of a saw gashed the silence that followed. Belle waited for the noise to die down before saying, "Well, that's alright. College isn't for everyone."

Jim reached for his satchel. He pulled out the orb, tossed it around in his hand. "Hey, don't get me wrong. If I could, I'd go in a second."

"Why can't you?"

He carefully rested the orb on the pages of her open book. She picked it up, gazed at it, stroked it gently with the edge of her thumb. "That isn't real gold, you know," he said. Belle seemed surprised. "You kidding? I could never afford the real stuff. Well, that, and real gold would have been the totally wrong element for what that thing does. Anyway." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Let's just say if I own anything of value, chances are I made it myself."

"I see." She paused. "Jim, what exactly does this thing do?"

He half-smiled. "I guess I never showed you, huh?" He held out his hand.

Belle tossed the orb back to him. Without so much as glancing down, Jim pressed in a few of its circles and twisted it, once vertically, then twice horizontally. Finally, the mechanism clicked, and the outer shell separated, revealing a brightly glowing core. Belle gasped. A thousand tiny lights were now streaming from the orb's interior. They twisted and morphed, making intricate shapes and patterns. Then, suddenly, they compacted, and a series of holographic images appeared before them.

The first took the shape of a five-year-old boy. Belle marveled as the boy, clearly Jim, fit a thin wooden mast into a hole of a tiny toy ship. Holograph-Jim held his creation up proudly. Then a hand appeared from beyond the range of the image, briefly ruffling his hair. It vanished again a second later. The boy watched the figure leave, his expression crestfallen.

Jim swiped the image left.

Now the boy was older—Belle guessed about eight. Fully armed with gloves and a mask, older-Jim was now working on a more complex project. His fingers waggling excitedly, he reached for two pieces of metal, which he held out in front of him. Then he placed them both on an expensive-looking table top. Sparks flew as he welded the pieces together.

"My first board," said Jim. "And our last dining room table." Belle laughed. He swiped again.

Now holograph-Jim was eleven. He had his arms wrapped around a great dane puppy. The puppy seemed content enough, but Belle could read the desperate plea on Jim's lips: can I keep him? Beside her, Jim chuckled. He lifted his finger to swipe again, but then the image began to flicker and fade. He pushed several buttons, shook the device, but the image vanished as the orb's power failed.

"Gah— dang it!" Jim sealed up his device. "It always does that after a couple of minutes."

"Jim, how did you make that? That thing, it's, it's—"

"It's a work-in-progress. And it always will be unless . . ." He shoved the thing back into his satchel. "Forget it, just forget it." He stood. "Look, it's late. I should probably get going, so . . . thanks, and I'll, uh, see you later." He made for the door.

"Wait," said Belle. Jim stopped. "What about scholarships?"

". . . What about them?"

"You want to go to college, right?" Belle shrugged. "Well, why not apply for a scholarship? You're a senior this year, right?"

"Junior."

She shrugged. "So that gives you some extra time to prepare. Anyway, why don't you go for it?"

He frowned. "Well, I, uh . . ."

"And don't give me that 'I'm not smart enough' nonsense, because _clearly_ you are." She smiled. "You could win one. With that orb and good grades? You really, really could. I'll help you. So will Papa."

Jim blinked.

She walked towards him, her arms folded. "I'll make you a deal. You keep helping my father out with whatever it is he needs here, and together we'll help you win a scholarship. What do you say?"

Jim stared at her, his heart thudding in his chest. She seemed so certain he could do this. Could he really? His grades weren't that bad, he supposed. A few good scores and he'd be up to par with the best of his class. But what if grades weren't enough? What if he couldn't get the orb working? How much time and effort would they all have wasted if he didn't win the scholarship after all?

He continued to argue with himself for a good, long minute. Then he pursed his lips, his fingers drumming against his chin. "Study time," he said finally, " _cannot_ cut into my work hours."

"Nope."

"And I'd pay you for your time—"

"Absolutely not!"

"—in _donuts_. Or, whatever you want." He stepped forward. "Come on. You're dad's overpaying me by, like, five bucks an hour. I owe you guys something."

Belle bit back a smile. "I like donuts."

"Okay, then. Deal."

They shook on it firmly. Then Maurice called for Belle and Jim slipped out the door.

As the asphalt glided beneath the wheels of his new board, Jim weaved from one side of the street to the other, testing the trucks, relishing the familiar rush of adrenaline as he picked up speed. As he soared through the streets, hair flying, heart pounding, he felt like his life was finally beginning.


	8. Chapter 8

As Jim rode to school the following morning, it was all he could do not to jam out loud. Head banging, tunes blasting, he was blissfully distracted by his sweet new wheels—and a new sense of something he hadn't felt in forever: hope.

So, when he rolled into school and five different professors told him to "lug it or lose it," he didn't even notice. He did, however, notice that Student Council volunteers were taping flyers to the walls, the doors, and every last locker from the front doors to the football field. He tore the one off of his own locker:

WALT HIGH IDOL

ALL SINGERS & BANDS wanted for the  
competition of the year!

THE SHOW  
will be held in the Ron Miller auditorium  
October 1, 6:30–8:00 pm

 _Interesting,_ thought Jim, but this wasn't his scene. Sure, he'd played around on his dad's old guitar once upon a time. But, again, that was once upon a time, and even if he _could_ still remember how to play, there was no way in the underworld he would ever play in public. That and his dad had taken the guitar with him.

As the hallways filled with students, though, Jim quickly realized that he was very much alone in this mindset:

"So what are you gonna sing?"

"Guys, we've got to rehearse!"

"Do you think there'll be prizes?"

"What's a good audition song?"

 _Sheesh._ He stashed away his board and headed to class.

He was already sick of the whole thing by lunch hour. Turns out everyone— _everyone_ wanted to compete, regardless of whether they had any kind of talent. Girls in his classes hummed songs under their breath as guys flipped through their phones for audition inspiration. Was this a joke? Jim wondered. Some evil plot the teachers had trumped up? A way to keep the students preoccupied while they secretly took over the world? Because it was working terrifyingly well.

Well, at least Jim could depend on _someone_ not to get swept up in this battle for attention: "Hey, Tar, have you seen Belle?"

Tarzan was sitting with Jane today, the new lunchtime norm since the hummingbird incident. Instead of eating, though, they'd pushed their trays aside, and were both pouring over Tarzan's biology textbook, their eyes gleaming with passionate interest. Jim actually did a double take. This was the first time he'd ever seen Tarzan ignore a plate of food.

" _Ahem_. Tar?"

"Huh?" Tarzan and Jane looked up in unison. "Oh, hey, Jim! What did you say?"

But the Jim had already deduced that his friend was oblivious to a lot of things right now. He turned to Jane instead. "Is Belle around?" he asked.

Jane scanned the cafeteria. "Ummm . . . no. No, I don't see her. She must be eating off campus." That's right. Jim kept forgetting that Belle was a senior. "Why?"

He shrugged. "Oh, I just . . . never mind. Class stuff. You guys studying?"

"We do have a test coming up!" said Jane—as if she'd been looking forward to it for weeks.

Tarzan matched her enthusiasm. "We just thought we'd brush up on the material real quick. Sit with us, bro!"

Jim tried not to laugh. As if either of them needed to 'brush up' on bio; they each had that textbook memorized from cover to cover. This was clearly a ploy, a disgustingly adorable ploy to spend time together. He unpacked his lunch and sat down across from them, eyes rolling.

Tarzan shoved an entire sandwich into his mouth; he'd finally noticed his food. "It's been a few days, Jim," he said, once he'd swallowed. "Where've you been? Lumiere's didn't take you back, did they?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Hah, I didn't even ask. But, I'm actually doing a lot better."

Tarzan nearly dropped the textbook on the second half of his sandwich. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Oh, and I'm not looking for a job anymore."

"You serious?" Tarzan looked genuinely surprised. Pleased, but surprised. Jim was suddenly aware of how seldom he brought good news to the lunch table.

He beamed in spite of himself. "Yeah, you won't believe—"

Suddenly, DING! Both boys jumped as Jane's phone went off at full volume in her pocket. She mumbled an apology, blushing deeply as she fumbled around for her device. She almost dropped it twice before finally opening the message. Its contents made her she raise an eyebrow—at Jim.

"Uh, what?"

"I think someone's trying to get your attention." She nodded towards a table across the room. To Jim's utter horror, Ariel was waving at him with an enthusiasm only she could manage. She was sitting with the Street Rats, of course, and beside her, Aladdin gave Jim his standard bro-to-bro head nod. Jim eyed them suspiciously. This kind of thing didn't happen to him.

"I think she wants you to join them," said Jane.

Jim stood. This took considerable effort, as the feeling had totally gone from his legs. "You sure she's not waving at you, Jane?"

Jane held up her phone. "She says, 'Send Jim over.' "

"Oh." He reached for his lunch, then thought the better of it. With Ariel there, the chances of holding down food were slim at best. So, he slid last night's leftovers across the table to Tarzan (who accepted them happily) and gave his friends one final, pathetic glance— _save me_ — before shuffling off.

As he walked, he could feel (or, at least, he imagined he could feel) the stares of every student he passed by. The nerds, the jocks, the Royals, the fringes, everyone: _they_ all knew where they fit in. Why did it have to be so painfully obvious that Jim did not? He wondered for a moment what it felt like to belong. He probably wouldn't be such a target for the top-of-the-food-chain kids, for a start. After all, he never saw Gaston getting in Naveen's face, or Kay giving Phillip a hard time. The idea was absurd.

Which reminded him: his eyes flicked to the far corner of the room. Kay and Co. were at their usual table, and per the norm, they'd already selected their victim of the day—poor Milo. He was a regular on the bullied list, too. Jim flinched as Anastasia and Drizella tore pages from his textbooks, chanting his name as they laughed hysterically.

One fight at a time, he decided as he approached the Street Rats' table.

Naveen was the first to acknowledge him. Sort of. "So, Al, _this_ is the guy who fixed the Magic Carpet?"

Aladdin was leaning back in his chair, his arms resting behind his head. "Yep. Don't know what he did, but she's running like a dream."

"So, I have an amp that needs fixing," said Naveen. Apparently Jim was worth speaking to directly, now. "One of the input jacks is out. Do you think you could look at it?"

Jim shrugged. "Uh, yeah, sure. Bring it by." Maurice would be thrilled for the business.

Naveen made a sweeping gesture over the table. "Have a seat, friend."

Jim scanned the table uncertainly. Well, the seat next to Naveen was out, reserved as it was for his G. O. W. ('Girlfriend of the Week'). Sure, it was vacant today, but Jim wasn't about to volunteer as tribute. Aladdin was seated on the end, and Jim _couldn't_ sit by Ariel. That left Eric, to whom Jim had never even spoken once. He took a seat.

The junior didn't seem to mind. "I'm Eric," he said, smiling. "You've obviously met Al."

Aladdin nodded. "Sup?"

"And I am Naveen," said Naveen in his thick Maldonian accent. He revealed two rows of perfect pearly whites. Jim blinked. Was he supposed to react? Look impressed, maybe? He glanced around. Apparently.

"Hey, Jim!" said Ariel. "Sorry about the awkward text thing. Aladdin wanted to thank you, and I didn't know how else to get you over here."

Aladdin offered Jim a fist bump, and he returned it, albeit hesitantly. Really? That was it?

"How's working at Belle's place?" asked Ariel.

"Well, I just started, so . . ." A smile tugged at the corner of Jim's mouth. He couldn't help himself; he let it pull a full-blown grin. "I love it, actually."

Ariel's obvious delight made Jim's cheeks burn. "That's so awesome!" she chirped. "YAY!"

"Alright, alright, enough chit chat." Naveen leaned across the table. "We have business to discuss."

His bandmates nodded in agreement.

"As you all know, Walt High Idol is coming up. Now, it is obvious that we are the best band at Walt High. By far. As such, it is not only our right to win—it is our _duty_!"

 _Wow. Honest_ and _humble_ , thought Jim.

"Great," said Eric. "So we whip out the usual crowd-pleasers, get 'em all pumped. Bam. Easy win."

Aladdin high fived him. "Yeah! That's what I'm talking abo—"

But Naveen brought his fist down so hard on the table everyone's lunches got two seconds of airtime. "NO!" he cried. "'Crowd-pleasers?' _Faldi faldonza_ , that is exactly what they'll be expecting! What we need is a fresh angle. Something bold, something different, something, something . . ."

"Something new?" Eric guessed.

"Ah, there! Eric, you just—how do you say? Oh, yes, you just 'hit the nail on the head.' Something _new_ , exactly. So. When can we get together to write the new song? Tonight? Are we all free? What time?"

Jim wondered if this might be a good time to excuse himself. Then Eric cleared his throat.

"Is there a problem?" asked Naveen.

"Actually," said Eric, sheepishly, "we're gonna have to find a new place to practice."

"Why? What is wrong with your basement?"

"My parents are sick of the noise. They said they can hear us all the way upstairs, and they've both got major projects they're working on right now. I'm sorry, Naveen, I tried talking to them, but no can do."

Naveen sighed. He turned to Aladdin.

"Nope," said his bandmate, without hesitation. "No way my foster parents would allow it."

"And I'd offer you my place," Ariel added, "but, my dad's my dad, so . . ."

The Street Rats mumbled their agreement. Apparently this needed no further explanation.

"And my house has terrible acoustics." Naveen sighed again. "Alright. We'll have to ask around. Who do we know who has space for us to set up in until Walt High Idol ends? Who's got a room, a garage, maybe, who won't mind a little noise now and then?"

All four heads turned towards Jim.

"Whoa, hang on, _my_ place? No way. My mom can't even stand my own music, let alone a live band."

Aladdin shook his head. "Nah, you've got us all wrong, dude. Maurice's! I'm sure he wouldn't mind, right?"

"Wait—what?"

"Maurice has that big old work space!" the drummer continued. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind if we took up a corner. After hours, of course."

Jim shook his head. "Guys, look, he's really, really busy. He's got all these projects he's working on, and—"

Ariel gasped. "Oh m'gosh! Al, that's such a great idea! And I'm _sure_ Belle won't mind!"

Jim laughed. "No, I'm pretty sure she will." They ignored him.

"So, about this new song," said Ariel. "Can I help you guys write it, or is this just a 'Street Rat' thing?"

Naveen shrugged. "Why not? You have good taste."

She bit her lip. "And then, maybe, can I help you guys . . . sing it?"

Naveen groaned. "Ariel, we have talked about this. We do not need a lead singer. Let the music speak for itself." He said this with reverence, as if he were quoting someone profound. Jim was fairly sure he was quoting himself.

"Oh, come on, of course you need one! You're a rock band. Not having a lead singer is like . . . well, it's like baking a cake and not frosting it."

"I do not know what that means," said Naveen curtly. "There are plenty of delicious cakes with no frosting on them. What I _do_ know is that if we add words to our songs, we are removing our fans' creative . . . creative . . . gah, what is the phrase? Oh! _Creative license_. We are removing their creative license." He smirked triumphantly.

Ariel sniffed. "Well, fine. But when you get disqualified for not having any actual singing in your performance, don't come cry on my shoulder."

Eric nodded hesitantly. "She's got a point, Naveen. We can't be in a singing competition with no singer."

Naveen scratched his head. He pinched his chin. He prodded his forehead with the tips of his fingers until little red spots began to appear, but there was no way around it. The Street Rats needed a lead singer. He rolled his eyes. "Fine. You may audition. But no promises!"

High fives made their way around the table. Ariel squealed. "You won't be sorry!" she said, and she reached across the table to embrace the lead guitarist.

"Alright, alright, enough, enough, enough," said Naveen. "We'll meet at Maurice's, 9:30. Does that work for everyone?" Everyone nodded.

Everyone, that is, except Jim, who tried once again to explain that Maurice's was _not_ an option. But a long, lean figure cast a shadow across the table, silencing them all. Long legs, long hair, and the sickening stench of vanilla-meets-witch loomed over them: Vanessa.

"Was it just me," she said, "or did I hear someone say they were looking for a singer?"

Ariel broke the silence that followed with a regretful click of her tongue. "Aw, we actually just filled that spot. Sorry."

Jim had yet to see Ariel take a disliking to anybody, so he couldn't be sure. But something told him that behind those bright blue eyes all wide with concern, Ariel did _not_ like Vanessa. He watched her, fascinated. This would be interesting.

Naveen, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind Vanessa at all. Already the boy was at her side, standing far too close and far too comfortably for what Jim knew would be Gaston's liking. "Now hold on," Naveen said, and he held up a hand to quiet his comrades. "Nothing's been decided yet. I'm sure we can work something out." He beamed amiably.

Ariel looked to the table for support, but Eric just shrugged noncommittally, Jim following in suit. His instinct was to defend her, of course, but the last thing he wanted was to incur Vanessa's wrath, lest her boyfriend come lumbering across the cafeteria to use Jim for javelin practice again. Yeah, that was one thing at a restaurant surrounded by strangers, but here? At school? He'd pass, thanks. Still, he couldn't bring himself to meet Ariel's gaze.

Thank goodness for Aladdin, whose loyalty to Ariel was apparently unshakable. "Come on, man. You promised."

"Actually, I didn't," said Naveen. "I said Ariel could _audition_. And what is the use of an audition if no one else is auditioning, am I right?"

Aladdin rolled his eyes. His chin resting in his hand, he waved a hand at his bandmate dismissively. "Whatever, dude."

Vanessa slinked towards her all-too-willing victim. She placed one hand on his shoulder, her other hand resting on her hip. "Mmm," she purred, "I like the way you think." Naveen giggled— _giggled._ Jim didn't even try to conceal his disgust. "It's settled then." With the tip of her bony finger, Vanessa poked Naveen's nose. Then she turned to leave. "Oh, I almost forgot. Time? Place?"

"Maurice's Shop. 9:30." To Jim's surprise, Ariel had appeared at Naveen's side, and was holding out a hand for Vanessa to shake. "May the best singer win."

Vanessa looked her competition over. She smirked. "Oh, _I will_."

Jim couldn't help it: he actually snorted.

Vanessa's head turned with the smoothness of a snake's. She slinked towards her prey. "Aw, is this your new friend, Ariel?" She ruffled Jim's hair and he swatted her hand away. "Seems like Loner Boy's been making a lot of those lately."

Jim meant to keep quiet, he really did. But coward or not, once the fuse had been lit, he couldn't seem to stop himself. "I could say the same about you, Vanessa. Tell me, how many of your _friends_ does Gaston know about?"

The Street Rats responded with a chorus of 'ohhhhhhhhs,' but Vanessa just stood there, unflinching, her eyes narrowed like a cat's. "Well, why don't you go tell him?" she challenged. "I dare you. See how far he can throw you this time."

Aladdin stood. "Hey, back off, will ya?" Jim was genuinely surprised. Sure, Aladdin would do anything for his friends; he'd made that very clear. But for Jim, a stranger? Maybe Belle was right. Maybe there was more to this guy than met the eye.

He turned to see what Vanessa would do.

Apparently Aladdin had surprised her as well, because she spun on her heel without a quip or a comeback. She did turn to Ariel, though, as she left, and whispered, "See you at nine," before strutting away, undoubtedly set on doing damage somewhere else.

"9:30!" Ariel called after her. "Unless you want Jim to fix up your attitude while you wait!" She turned to Naveen and punched him in the arm.

"Ow! What? What did I do?"

She shook her head. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

No one disagreed.


	9. Chapter 9

"Al! Eric! Finish setting up!" Naveen shouted from his perch on the Barber-O-Matic. "Vanessa will be here ANY MINUTE!"

Jim prodded the box of donuts he'd bought for Belle and sighed. He'd been scheduled to leave work an hour ago, but Belle wasn't answering his calls or texts, and no _way_ was he leaving without explaining why the Street Rats, of all people, were setting up camp in her father's shop. At least Maurice had been chill about the whole thing. Apparently Belle could do with the extra company.

In any case, seeing the band function in a non-school setting was turning out to be pretty interesting. Without a crowd to please or a girl to impress, their dynamic was pretty different: Naveen was bossier, Eric was more pensive, and Aladdin was just plain in a world all his own. As the drummer set up his kit, he bobbed his head to an imaginary beat which occasionally reached his feet. At one point he was air-guitaring so hard he nearly took out a machine in the back corner.

Just as Jim was trying to picture this scene going down in the cafeteria (he couldn't), TWANG! Eric strummed out a chord on his bass. It sounded great—or, at least, it would have at a decent volume. Instead, the chord morphed into a hideous squeal, all but deafening the room's occupants.

"Oops," said Eric, turning the knob on the amp anticlockwise. He tried the chord again. "There we go." He riffed a couple of bars.

Applause broke out from the shop's doorway. Ariel? Vanessa? All heads turned. Nope: the applauder was a stranger, and she wasn't alone.

"Eric, that sounds awesome!" said a cute, curvy girl with platinum-blonde hair. She let herself in and rushed the bass guitarist, followed closely by a pretty brunette and a short blonde with a pixie cut. The door closed behind them, reopening a few seconds later to reveal a very disgruntled-looking Ariel.

"Arista, Aquata, Andrina!" Eric gave each of the girls a warm hug. "What's up? It's been a while!" He put his arms around two of them and shot Ariel a smile. "Ariel! You didn't tell me your sisters were coming!"

"Neither did they," said Ariel gloomily.

"Daddy gave our driver the evening off," Aquata explained. " _Someone_ had to drive Ariel here."

"But we wouldn't take her until she told us where she was going!" said Arista.

Andrina grinned wickedly. "Then we threatened to tell dad all about it if she didn't let us come too."

Naveen made his way over from the Barber-O-Matic. "Well, we are delighted to have such lovely ladies in our midst!" He took Andrina's hand and kissed it. She sighed blissfully. "Tell me, will we be hearing your lovely voices tonight as well?"

Ariel cleared her throat. "Um, Naveen? I don't think that's—"

"Oh, we would _love_ to!" said Arista. "I mean, we're not exactly prepared, but . . ."

"They've been practicing all evening," snipped Ariel, earning herself a hostile look from her sisters.

"Wonderful!" said Naveen. "Well, we can certainly make time for three more auditions—can't we, boys?"

Eric nodded eagerly, but Aladdin, who had loyally drifted to Ariel's side, was looking a little less enthused. "I dunno, bro. I've got homework. And stuff."

"Oh, do not be such a stick in the mud." He tickled Arista's chin, and she let out a high-pitched giggle. "We must make sure that we are covering"—he traced Aquata's jawline with the edge of his finger—" _all_ of our bases."

The sisters swooned.

From the other side of the room, Ariel made a loud gagging sound. Jim tried to put himself in her shoes. He could imagine (with a little help from Arista's giggling) how having siblings might get really old, really fast. Always having someone getting in your stuff, flirting with your friends. On the other hand, it would be nice, just once, to have someone else to depend on, to have somebody on his team. On his _mom's_ team. Someone who wouldn't up and leave one morning and never come back.

Yeah, that sounded pretty great to him.

"Alright!" said Naveen. "Vanessa is not here, but it's getting late and we must begin! So, my darlings, tell us what you'd like to sing and we will do our best to accompany your sensational voices. Who would like to go first?"

Andrina's fingertips nearly brushed the ceiling. "Ooh! Ooh! Pick me! Pick me!" Aquata and Arista stepped aside. Apparently they'd been expecting this.

Immediately, Eric and Naveen went for their instruments, Eric his bass and Naveen his pricy-looking Fender. Aladdin held back at first, but Naveen shot him an impressively terrifying death-glare, and the drummer finally caved, even when Ariel hissed at him to stay. "You heard the boss" he said, and he ruffled her hair before joining his bandmates.

Ariel slouched against the machine behind her, her lips pursed. Jim tried to think of something to say.

"You, uh, gonna go watch?" he asked finally.

Ariel sighed. "Do I have a choice?" She gave him a half-smile. "Sit with me?"

He nodded.

Their shoulders brushing, they walked towards the wooden crates by the Barber-O-Matic. He pulled up two crates, one for him, one for her, giving them a side-on view of the Street Rats' setup. As he sat down, however, she surprised him by ignoring her crate and joining him on his. He gulped. She was sitting so close to him, so horrifyingly close, the length of her leg lining his from their shoes to their hips. Had she meant to do that? Should he move? As he pondered his predicament, Naveen plugged in the microphone.

"Alright, then, Anita."

"Andrina."

"Whatever. What will you sing for us tonight?"

Andrina rocked back and forth on her heels bashfully. "'Redneck Woman' by Gretchen Wilson," she said, beaming.

It was as if magic words has turned the Street Rats to stone; for the next few seconds, the only thing that moved between them was Naveen's eye, which twitched spasmodically. Aladdin was the first to break the spell. "You want to sing a . . . country song?"

Andrina cheeks dimpled adorably. "Uh huh!"

Aladdin laughed. "Um, you do realize that this is a _rock_ band, right?" Eric socked him in the arm. "Ow! What? We are!"

But Naveen had already taken matters into his own hands. "My dear, is there any other song you might consider? Country is not exactly our specialty."

But Andrina insisted, her dimples firmly planted in her cheeks. As she and Naveen bickered through their teeth, Ariel leaned over and whispered, "Never mind. I'm glad I brought my sisters after all." Jim chuckled uncomfortably, wiping his sweaty palms down the length of his jeans.

Things only got worse from there. Andrina and her dimples eventually got their way, and the band did their best to accompany her. Aquata auditioned next with 'Pie Jesu', after which Arista handed them each an chord progression for a rap she'd written herself—and she'd _definitely_ written it herself. By the end of their auditions, Jim noticed that Naveen was looking a little ill. Apparently imagining the fate of his band in the hands of the Poole sisters was proving to be a little too much for him. Just when Jim thought he might actually cry, Vanessa walked through the door.

"Vanessa!" Naveen cried. "Goddess of song, you have arrived!" Then he dropped to his knees and kissed her hand.

Jim wouldn't have guessed that any level of worship could make Vanessa uncomfortable. She surprised him, however, by staggering away from the crazed lead guitarist.

"Don't mind him," Eric called to her. "He's been through a lot today."

"Oh," said Vanessa, and she looked around. She eyed the mechanical creations that surrounded her with obvious disgust, then she glanced at Ariel, Jim, and the Street Rats with a similar expression. When she finally noticed the three sisters, however, her default smirk returned. "Oh, I _see_ ," she purred. She pushed past Naveen and made her way towards them. "You must be the Poole sisters I keep hearing about. I'm Vanessa."

The Pooles exchanged a knowing glance.

"Aquata."

"Arista."

"Andrina," they said, with a coldness that made the hair on Jim's arms stand on end. _Are girls always this scary?_ he wondered.

Ariel stood. "Well, shall we get this auditions rolling?" She went for the mic and looked at Aladdin expectantly.

"Yep. Let's do that," said Aladdin. He held up his drumsticks. "Naveen? Eric?" His bandmates scrambled for their instruments.

But Vanessa stepped towards the redhead and held out a hand. "Oh, honey," she said, "I really think I should go first. See, unlike you, I've got things to do, people to see. You know." She shrugged. "Me stuff."

To Jim's surprise, Ariel handed the mic over without hesitation. "Oh, yeah, no problem. We'll save the best for last, I guess." She laughed good-naturedly.

Now fully recovered, Naveen strummed out a chord on his Fender. "You ready?" he asked with a wink.

Vanessa gave her thick brown hair a toss. "Duh."

They took their positions. Aladdin counted them off and they started to play.

No doubt about it, Vanessa was good. _Really_ good, although she did take some liberties with the melody that defeated the purpose of the song, Jim thought. Like those people who riff their way through the national anthem. That said, Vanessa's strong, edgy voice was well-suited to the Street Rats' style, especially in comparison with her preceding competitors.

And she certainly knew how to play the part. She even made a point to cozy up to the band members, two of whom played right along with her: Eric and Naveen, no surprise there. But for the most part Vanessa commanded center stage, even blocking the band members at times. Like the rest of the world, this space was her kingdom, and the bandmates merely peasants.

As the final chorus came to an end, she let out one last powerful note before striking a pose. Naveen and Eric burst into applause. "Vanessa, you are an angel!" said Naveen. "Truly the heavens—"

"Thanks, babe." She turned to Eric. "Well? What did _you_ think?"

"That was freaking awesome," said Eric without pause.

Ariel quickly stepped between them. "Very nice. Now, you said you had things to see, people to do?"

Vanessa twirled a strand of hair around her finger. "Oh, I think my adoring fans can wait for a few more minutes. Go on, sweetheart." She handed the mic over. "Sing me to sleep."

Ariel smiled and took it from her. "Anything you say." She placed it back on its stand and turned to her friends. "You boys know Billy Joel?"

The Street Rats gasped in unison. They turned to their leader, who'd gone stiff with shock. "Did you just say"—Naveen swallowed— "Billy Joel?" Ariel nodded casually. "You _know_ Billy Joel?"

"Um, I'm pretty sure most people do. Besides, I believe that's what _I_ just asked _you._ "

Naveen let out a faint whimper, his eyes glinting. "Ariel, we would be delighted—no, _honored_ to play whichever song of his you would like to sing!"

Vanessa snorted from the sidelines.

Jim watched Ariel suspiciously. There was something going on here, he could sense it. A conspiratorial glance between Ariel and Aladdin confirmed his suspicions. "Alright," said Ariel. "'Why Should I Worry' sound good to you guys?"

Naveen let out a squeal that would have out-squealed any pre-teen fangirl. Aladdin didn't even have time to count them off before Naveen had strummed out the first chord.

As Ariel waited awkwardly through the introduction, something very un-Ariel-like seemed to come over her. Her eyes, usually so bright and confident, were focused intently on her feet, and her hands, which were wrapped too-tightly around the mic, were trembling slightly—so did her voice when she sang out the first line. Jim wanted to catch her eye, to give her a smile of encouragement, but he figured he was the last thing on her mind right now. To his amazement, however, she actually glanced his way a moment later. His face heat up like a solar fire. Before he could stop himself, he sighed, audibly.

That was all it took. Ariel let out the teeniest of giggles mid-note—drawing every puzzled gaze towards Jim—and as the verse burst into the vibrant, catchy chorus, her voice suddenly took flight. Now she was gripping the mic in both hands, removing it from its stand as she belted the words: "Why should I worry? Why should I caaa-a-a-are? I may not have a dime! But I got street _savoire faire!_ "

"Ow ow!" cried Arista, and she punched the air repeatedly. Aquata and Andrina chimed in, whooping and cheering and clapping their hands. Between the three of them, they'd started a mini-mosh pit in front of the mic stand. Jim smiled to himself. He'd pegged these girls for the competitive type, and maybe that observation still wasn't entirely off. But Ariel's success clearly meant more to them than any sibling rivalry ever could. He only hoped that Ariel could see that.

Aware of her on-stage transformation, the Street Rats stepped up their game as well, and by the final chorus, everyone was giving their all. They'd never sounded so good. Even Maurice came dancing in from the house, obviously a fan of this song from 'his time,' and he joined in the mosh pit, singing loudly along to every word. Ariel's sisters doubled over with laughter. So did Ariel, and as the final chorus ended, she was laughing too hard to finish. It didn't matter. She'd shown what she could do.

Ariel's sisters rushed the makeshift stage, throwing their arms around her, ruffling her hair, pinching her cheeks. Meanwhile Maurice returned to the house. He was singing the song from the beginning again, and his voice could be heard long after he'd closed the door behind him.

" _Ashidanza!_ " cried Naveen, and he squeezed through the Poole sisters. "You—"

Ariel beamed expectantly. "Yes?"

Naveen cleared his throat, his expression shifting to nonchalant. "You sing good," he said.

She rolled her eyes. That would have to do.

Drumsticks still in hand, Aladdin was the one to throw his arms around her next. He held on for way too long (as far as Jim was concerned), rubbing her back briefly before he whispered something in her ear. Jim didn't hear it. Whatever it was, though, it seemed to make her very, _very_ happy.

She kissed him on the cheek.

 _NO!_

Meanwhile Vanessa had gone too long without being the center of attention. In a panic, she hurried forward. "Naveen!" she cried. "Don't forget you've got a competition coming up. If you're actually serious about _winning_ , then I suggest you make up your mind so we can get practicing."

Even Naveen blinked at her like he'd forgotten she was there. The lead guitarist stepped to the side, gesturing for his bandmates to join him. "Boys, I think we are in need of what they call a 'huddle.' "

Jim stood awkwardly on the side lines. He wanted to say something, to tell Ariel that, no matter what the Street Rats decided, she'd sung like an angel—or, something along those lines. But just as he was about to make the move, the front door opened and in walked a very puzzled-looking Belle.

"Belle!" Jim nearly tripped over himself as he ran across the room. "I can explain."

" _Wow_ , did I miss something?" She smiled as she said this, but Jim's guilt was far from eased.

"I tried to call you a hundred times, but—"

"I tutor fifth graders on Mondays. Didn't I tell you that?"

"Oh. Um, I don't think so." Well _that_ explained a lot. Jim rubbed his hands together. If he'd thought they were sweaty before . . . "So, here's the thing," he began. "Walt High Idol posters went up this morning, and everyone was kind of freaking out—no clue why—and I was trying to eat my lunch when Ariel texted Jane because these guys said they needed a place to rehearse, and I _told_ them your dad's wasn't an option, but they just wouldn't . . ." He sighed, defeated. "I brought you donuts." He gestured towards the box on the workbench beside them. "They've got sprinkles."

Belle's bewildered gaze trailed from Jim to the intruders to the donuts and back to Jim again. She connected the dots. "Jim Hawkins, how do you get yourself into these situations?"

Jim laughed nervously. "You tell me."

She smiled.

"Alright, everyone! We have made our decision!" said Naveen.

Jim and Belle turned to face the band while the rest of the room crowded around them. Aladdin and Eric were shockingly stone-faced as they stood off to the side, their arms folded against their chests. Naveen stepped forward, cleared his throat, and removed the mic from its stand.

Good grief.

"After careful consideration," he announced, "we have finally come to a decision." He cracked his neck, eyes closed in preparation for the reveal. Then he opened them. "Vanessa."

Everyone gasped.

". . . I am so, so sorry, my love."

Five seconds of silence. Then, the repair shop erupted with the sound of Poole-sister squeals. They threw their arms around each other, Ariel included, and proceeded to jump up and down in synchronized excitement. Behind them, Aladdin and Eric had dropped their stoic expressions and were beaming as widely as anyone. Jim watched Eric. Oh, sure, he was all smiles and congratulations now, but Jim suspected the vote for Ariel hadn't been entirely unanimous.

Meanwhile, Vanessa was looking, in a word, baffled. Clearly these were not the results she'd been expecting. But fury overtook her shock soon enough, and she made for the door, stilettos clacking. Naveen stumbled after her: "My darling! My princess! _Wait!_ You can still come to rehearsals! Sing back-up! Have dinner with me?"

But Vanessa ignored his pleas, charging through Jim and Belle on her way out. She shot the room a final, scathing frown before slamming the door behind her.

This was not the last they'd heard of her, Jim was certain of that.

"Okay, I'm officially confused," said Belle. "What exactly just happened here?"

Jim patted her shoulder. "Go eat a donut. I'll explain in a bit."


	10. Chapter 10

Belle had invited Jim to study with her. Apparently she knew the perfect place—which, as far as Jim was concerned, was anywhere _not_ the shop these days, as the Street Rats had made themselves at home there. But as she and Jim rode into town on his longboard, Jim standing on the back, Belle seated cross-legged on the front, she insisted on concealing their final destination from him.

"It's a surprise," she claimed.

"You're so weird," he replied (and she jabbed him in the ribs with her book).

Jim trusted Belle to an extent, certainly more than he did most people. But as her nose was currently buried in the second _Hunger Games_ novel, which she wouldn't set down, not even to call out directions, he could help but question her abilities as a navigator.

Whatever she had in mind, though, at least they were headed towards a part of Waltville Jim knew well. In a couple of blocks they'd be passing the skate park where Jim and Tarzan spent the occasional afternoon, and after that a playground, where Jim's mom had taken him to play as a kid. Jim wouldn't have objected to studying there; his memories there were pleasant ones—and completely dad-free, he might add, which was nice.

But as the park came up on their left, Belle made no indication to stop, so he sped on, watching as the park and the playground sped through his peripherals. He managed to catch part of a conversation that three little girls were having on the swing set.

"My cat's name is Oliver," said a soft-spoken redhead, "and he's the cutest kitty in the whole wide world!"

The second girl, who was missing a front tooth, spoke next. "Oh, I have a cat too! His name is Rufus—and he can talk! My parents 'dopted him, just like they 'dopted me, too."

"Well, I have a dog named Stitch and he's _blue!_ " said the third girl. "He likes Elvis. And destroying cities. And he's pretty good at playing the ukulele."

Until she laughed out loud, Jim didn't realize that Belle had been listening too. She looked back at him, open book in hands. "Did you ever have imaginary friends growing up?"

Jim thought back to all those mornings he'd spent at daycare. There wasn't much he could remember beyond a few vague images: a Fisher Price kitchen, a plastic slide, a space ranger doll whose name escaped him.

Then, suddenly—"Wow, yeah, Morph! I forgot about him! He was this little pink blob thing that could turn into anything. One time"—he chuckled—"I think I was five, and my mom . . . yeah, she was trying to get me dressed, or something. I told her not to worry because Morph could just turn into my missing sock."

He shook his head, overwhelmed by these long-forgotten memories.

Beaming so widely her cheeks dimpled, Belle turned to face forward again. She closed her book over her thumb. "Being an only child got kind of lonely sometimes. So I'd pretend that all the objects in the house were my friends—the wardrobe, the silverware, even the tea set."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But my favorite imaginary friend was this big, scary monster."

"A monster? You serious?"

She looked back at him again. "He was huge—he had to be, to protect me from . . ." She took a deep breath. "I didn't really fit in at school. Even then."

Jim nodded. He understood. "So, what did you call him?"

"Beast," she replied.

Jim kept silent, hoping Belle would tell him more about her monster, but she pointed off to the side and said, "Turn here."

Luxurious townhouses lined the street to their right, in front of which a couple—a tall, thin, blonde man with a long, pointed nose, and, to Jim's surprise, Mrs. Radcliffe, Belle's English teacher—were taking their Dalmatians for a walk. (Jim grinned when he realized that Pongo had been adopted.) Belle waved enthusiastically, then, "I said turn."

"Um, right here? You sure?"

"Positive."

Putting his rapidly-dissolving trust in her once again, Jim leaned back slightly and the board veered right. A long, narrow alleyway appeared, seemingly from nowhere. Without slowing, they whizzed over the sidewalk and disappeared into the shadows.

As they careened down the alleyway, Jim working overtime to navigate the maze of boxes and trash bags, his skeptical obedience sped up into something else: elation. How long had it been since he'd last gone exploring? He'd done it all the time when he was a kid. When had he decided he'd seen everything this poor, provincial town had to offer?

This train of thought came to a halt, however, when he noticed that Belle had abandoned her book. She was staring dead ahead, her hands gripping the sides of the board. But she didn't seem nervous; on the contrary, she was leaning back slightly, her legs still crossed. Jim watched as strands of her hair began to come loose from her braid one at a time. They quivered in the wind, dragging others out with them until finally, the ribbon securing them came loose. In a flurry of red, it flew up—Jim caught it between his fingers, almost losing his balance in the process. But as soon as he steadied himself, he saw that Belle was watching him. She was frowning slightly, not in anger, but in concentration. She seemed to be deciding something.

Suddenly Jim realized that the end of the alley was rushing towards them. The longboard rocked back and forth precariously as his shoe scraped against the rough asphalt. They came to a stop at the edge of a sidewalk.

"Here's good," said Belle. "Follow me."

 _Follow you where?_ Jim thought as he helped her to her feet. He tucked his board under his arm. Glancing up at the thin strip of sky above them, which was now a warm pink smeared with yellow and orange, he followed Belle out of the alley and into a bustling square.

Ah, now Jim knew _exactly_ where they were. To their left was the bakery Jim's mom shopped at occasionally, and to their right, Smee's Barber shop. But the place Jim new best here was Grandmother Fa's Dry Cleaners across the street. His mom wouldn't be there now—she'd be at Bella Notte Italian Grill, preparing for the evening rush. But if they came here tomorrow, Jim could drop by, maybe bring her dinner.

Books and Crannies, on the other hand, was a place Jim had only ever taken in subconsciously. No surprise there—with its mismatched brick and its fading blue door, tucked away in the far corner of the square, the bookshop wasn't exactly the most memorable place in town. Its most interesting feature, in fact, wasn't even part of the shop at all: a large, circular stain glass window located two stories up. Jim wondered if he hadn't noticed the shop before because he'd always mistaken it for a cathedral.

Belle was already making her way towards it. "How old is this place?" Jim asked when he caught up with her.

She rested the tips of her fingers on her cheeks. "Isn't it wonderful?" she whispered, as if this were the first time she'd ever laid eyes on it. Jim highly doubted that. "It's been here since the town was established."

"You don't say?"

Unable to restrain herself any longer, Belle gave a squeal of delight and let herself in. Jim followed her, chuckling at her enthusiasm.

Stepping inside didn't do much for his first impression. The shop was dark and musty, and apparently the shop's owner had never heard of book shelves. Instead, book pillars were staggered throughout the room, serving as the only obvious means of holding up the ceiling, which was literally drooping in places. Equally worn-looking was the little old man who emerged from the back room. Thin and hunched over, and wearing huge, magnifying glasses, he set down the stack of books in his arms and went to greet them.

"Ah, Belle!"

"Hello! I've come to return the book I borrowed." Belle swung her backpack down from her shoulder and pulled out said book.

The man's already-huge eyes grew even wider. "Finished already?"

"Oh, I couldn't put it down. Have you got anything new?"

"Not since yesterday!" he chuckled.

Jim gave Belle a look that made her go for his ribs again. He barely dodged her.

"Oh, that's alright," she went on, "I'll borrow"—she moved towards one of the book pillars like a moth to a flame.

Jim cleared his throat. "Uh, Belle?" He raised his eyebrows at her.

She sighed a long, exasperated sigh. "Ah, right, we've got studying to do." To the bookkeeper she said, "Another time, I guess."

"Of course." And the bookkeeper went back to stacking.

Belle took a deep breath. "Alright. No distractions." She closed her eyes and made a 'focus' gesture with her hands. Then she opened one eye. "Are you ready for the best part?"

Jim pursed his lips. "I don't know, am I?"

"Oh my _gosh_." She reached out and grabbed a handful of his shirt, pulling him towards the back of the store. "You are such a kill joy!"

"Hey"—he laughed—"geez."

As they made their way through a book-formed doorway, the number of book pillars per room quadrupled. In fact, now the very walls were made up entirely of books, stacks upon stacks of them, cemented together with who knew what. Jim gawked. It made for a pretty cool effect, but he couldn't help but question the shop's structural soundness. He tried not to dwell on this too deeply as he glanced over the rest of the room. Along with more books, a desk, and an overflowing trash bin, there was also— _oh, wow_ —an iron staircase spiraling up through the middle of room. Belle was already halfway up it, clearly set on his following her.

He smiled as he walked to the base of the staircase. Okay, he may not have been into dusty, damp bookshops, but quirky architecture? Mysterious staircases? Who was _he_ to say no to adventure?

"So where does this go?" he asked as he wrapped his hands around the iron railing.

Belle looked surprised. "Do you really want me to tell you?"

Dang—she'd figured him out. "Yeah, okay, just climb already."

Grinning, they ascended.

As he climbed up after her, he was surprised when they were plunged into darkness momentarily. He reached beyond the railing, eager to understand their location. His fingers met a rough surface: brick? "Hey—are we inside the walls, by any chance?"

"You got it."

"Whoa." Just as he was beginning to wonder if the staircase lead anywhere, they emerged fifteen feet later into the light—into several thousand lights, in fact, all glimmering and shimmering like miniature rainbows against the walls and ceiling of—wait, where on earth were they?

Belle climbed into the space and crossed it, beaming. It was a room, bare, except for a few boxes and a couple of chairs and—oh, _now_ Jim understood. This was the room behind the stain glass window! He gasped. "Belle, this—this is—"

"Amazing? I know. And the best part is no one else knows about it." She blushed slightly—or maybe that was reflected light glowing against her cheeks. "It's all ours."

Jim pivoted on his heels. "Belle," he said, "I could study with you here all day, every day."

* * *

They were sitting on the windowsill, deeply engrossed in their homework (well, mostly, in Jim's case) when Ariel texted Belle. She wanted to know what they were up to.

"Well, we're free, aren't we?" said Jim hurriedly. Belle shot him a look. "What?"

"I wonder what she wants," mumbled Belle as she texted Ariel back. They waited a few seconds before Ariel replied. "Hmm."

"What?"

"She says she wants us to meet her at Papa's shop."

"Oh. Shouldn't we go, then?"

Belle shrugged, not looking at him. "If you want."

"I was just thinking that, you know, what if they needed something? Or what if one of your dad's machines blew up on him, again?"

Belle stiffened. "You really think so?"

Jim placed a comforting hand on her knee. "Hey, no, sorry. I'm sure your dad's fine." Belle relaxed. "But, come on, don't you think we've studied enough for one day?"

"I thought you said you could study here all day, every day," said Belle, smirking.

Jim ruffled her hair and she slapped his hand away playfully. "Course I could," he said. "But everyone needs a break—even you, smarty pants." Belle rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Come on." He got to his feet, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. Then he offered her a hand. She took it and he pulled her up.

Suddenly their faces were only a few inches apart. Jim froze. You'd have to be blind not to see that she was pretty, but as she stared up at him with those big, gentle eyes, he had to admit: she was really, truly _beautiful_.

He laughed nervously, stepping back. "So, uh, same time next week?"

She stepped back, too, and made for the stairs. "Sounds like a plan!" Jim watched her leave, suddenly sad that she'd graduate before him.


	11. Chapter 11

The arrival of Autumn had inched nightfall back earlier and earlier, so it was dark by the time Jim and Belle rolled up to Maurice's. But the day seemed to be just getting started for the Street Rats, who were all broad smiles and impatient fidgeting as the pair arrived. Aladdin in particular seemed especially ecstatic about something—and he was waving that something over his head.

"Hey, guys, check this out!" He held out an object the size of a small toaster. It had a built-in flash and a thin, decorative rainbow stripe running vertically across the front: a Polaroid OneStep SX-70. Jim recognized it immediately. He had to admit, as old as the technology was, there was something very cool about Polaroid cameras, something antique and cutting-edge all at once. He briefly imagined being the first one to put this machine together, sitting at a dimly-lit desk in the dead of night, his sleeves rolled up as he worked away with surgical precision. Without thinking, he reached out to touch it.

To his surprise, Aladdin handed it right over. "I got it at that crummy little pawn shop on Morningside Street," he said to Jim. "Incredible what people are willing to give away, huh?"

"Yeah, incredible," said Jim absently. He turned the thing over in his hands, putting his eye to the eyepiece. Then he panned his surroundings: first, the street with it's odd little run-down houses, then Belle's beautiful cottage, the shop, Tulgey Wood, which began where the street ended. Then Ariel's face appeared in the frame. The redhead gave her hair a playful toss, batting her eyes at the camera. She puckered her brightly painted lips.

 _Click._ Jim's finger twitched, squeezing the shutter button. To his horror, the flash went off, and out slid an undeveloped photograph through the processing rollers. He ripped it from the machine, pocketing it quickly—though not before Ariel saw him. She gave him a broad, beautiful smile and winked.

"So, is everything alright, here, then?" asked Belle. She peered through the grimy shop window, her hands cupped around her eyes.

"Yeah, of course," said Aladdin. "You're dad's in there working, been at the Barber-O-Matic all day. The guys and I—sorry, Ariel, the _band_ and I—were just thinking we'd do a photo shoot tonight. You know, for our first album, when we make it big."

"We thought you guys might like to come!" said Ariel.

"Um," said Jim and Belle together.

"Where?" asked Belle.

Naveen sauntered forward and slid his arm around her. He pointed a finger in the direction of the neighboring woods. "How well do you know Tulgey?"

Belle's eyes lit up. "Like the back of my hand."

"Excellent! Then you will know where the best places to take photographs are!" He patted her shoulder and made a motion for his friends to follow him. "Come, _camarades_!" he cried. "Into the woods!"

The Street Rats cheered and formed a procession, Eric taking the lead. Jim watched in astonishment as Naveen fell second in line without argument. This left Ariel and Aladdin to bring up the rear. With a squeal of delight, Ariel sprang onto Aladdin's back, wrapping her legs around his middle. She ran her fingers through her thick hair, flipping it back so it was out of their faces. Grinning, the drummer called back, "Looks like my hands are full, Jim. Guess that makes you our photographer!"

Jim frowned. This was _not_ the evening he'd had in mind when he'd dragged Belle from the book shop. Speaking of which . . . . His mouth curved into a sly grin as he turned to his friend, hoping to pass the buck. But she was standing in the shop doorway, her lithe shadow pouring out onto the street.

"Whoa, hey, aren't you coming?" he asked.

"You go on ahead," said Belle. "I'll catch up. I just want to tell my father where I'm going." She shot him a brief, sympathetic smile before closing the door behind her.

Jim stood there in the dark, anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Should he wait for her? he wondered. Was she really coming? Because if she wasn't, then maybe he'd just stay in and get some work done. Yeah, that sounded like a good idea—better than dealing with the Street Rats on his own, for sure. He made for the door.

"Hey, skater boy!"

Jim turned. To his surprise, the Street Rats were waiting for him at the edge of the woods. Eric waved him over. "Come on!" he said. "What are you waiting for? Adventure is out there!"

"Uh," said Jim. He glanced wistfully at the shop. Then he groaned and shuffled after the band.

* * *

Eric and Naveen had activated the flashlights in their iPhones, and since Aladdin _still_ didn't have a free hand, Ariel had activated hers. Meanwhile Jim, who only had the screen of his 2009 Nokia flip phone to light the way, stumbled along over the root-ridden path, half-forgotten at the back of the line. He glanced back for the hundredth time.

"Do you think Belle will be able to find us?" he said. No one responded, which meant they didn't care or they hadn't heard him. "Hey, guys!" he said, nearly shouting. "Do you think we ought to stop for a second? Do we even know where we're going?"

But slowing down didn't seem to be a part of Eric's agenda. "Does it matter?" he called back.

"Um," said Jim. "Yes?"

"If it makes you feel better," said Ariel, "I've got a GPS in my phone."

"Wait, we have data out here?" asked Aladdin. He set Ariel down and pulled out his iPhone. She did the same. Their faces and thumbs glowed eerily as they typed.

"Well, even if we don't have data," said Eric, "the _stars_ will tell us where we are!" The junior leapt onto a large rock and struck a heroic pose. "Don't worry, guys. I've got this." Nobody seemed to doubt him.

Jim had been developing a theory since they'd left the cottage. He'd always seen Naveen as the Street Rats' self-appointed leader. But seeing how easily the Maldonian had let Eric take charge of the adventuring tonight suggested that the position might not be nearly as set in stone as Jim had assumed. Sure, the band was Naveen's baby, but if Jim was right, then Naveen's supposed tyranny probably had more to do with his being the man with a plan and less to do with his being a bossy, obnoxious, control freak. Which, well, put a different spin on things.

And while Jim was on the subject, tonight had revealed a completely different side of Eric. It was odd; the bassist was usually so go-with-the-flow. But seeing him standing there, fists planted on his hips, the silhouette of his adventurous posture emphasized by the moonlit sky above, Jim realized that, once again, he may have misjudged yet another one of the Street Rats.

Possibly all of them.

 _Click_ —FLASH.

"Gah, Jim!"

"Don't _do_ that!"

"At least give us a warning before you blind us!"

Jim snorted. "Look, if you guys don't want me taking pictures, you shouldn't have given me the camera." He put the device up to his eye again. But as he panned the group, he realized that Eric was no longer standing on the rock. Apparently being blinded had robbed him of his footing.

"Some king of the rock," Aladdin chuckled. He turned to Ariel, hoping to share his joke. But Ariel wasn't standing behind the drummer anymore.

"Eric! Eric, are you okay?"

She was hurrying down the root-ridden path, her arms flailing awkwardly as she tried not to trip. Aladdin, Jim, and Naveen exchanged glances. Eric, who was already back up on his feet, certainly _seemed_ fine. Granted, Jim could only see as much as his Nokia flip phone would illuminate, but still. Her concern seemed a little . . . unnecessary.

Then—"Oh, good! You guys made it."

Everyone turned at the sound of Belle's voice. "Hey!" said Eric. He brushed past Ariel and made his way to the back of the line. "We were just waiting for you!"

 _Wait, what?_

"Where did we make it to?" asked Jim. He flipped his phone open and held up the screen.

The device illuminated Belle's mischievous smile as she said, "You guys really don't know where you are, do you?" She shook her head, incredulous, and walked to the front of the procession. She climbed onto Eric's rock, stopped for a moment, then, before anyone could guess what she was up to, she stepped outside of the flashlights' range.

Jim started after her. "Hey, where—?"

"Just give me a second!" she called back at him. "Trust me!" Jim stopped. No one so much as breathed.

When a good minute had passed, Jim began to fidget anxiously in the dark. _Where does she think she's going?_ he wondered. _And who just wanders off into Tulgey without_ -

Then, suddenly, he heard it: a deep, powerful humming that made the treetops quiver and the ground tremble beneath them. Jim spun on his heel, searching wildly for the source. But before he could find it, the sonorous throbbing became a high-pitched whine, and in one painful moment, the woods were flooded with brilliant, white light.

Everyone's hands flew over their eyes. Jim was the first to lower his. "No _way_ ," he breathed. He could hardly believe it. Without even realizing it, they'd wandered into the remains of an abandoned fairground.

To their left was a haunted maze, a clown's gaping, fang-ridden mouth serving as the entrance. Unfortunately, the entrance seemed to be all that was left, trees and foliage having grown over the maze itself. A shame, Jim thought. Tarzan would have loved to explore the place (although he might just bring Tarzan here and attempt the feat anyway). Straight ahead was a mini roller coaster designed to look like a train. Jim could barely make out the fading letters C-A-S-E-Y and J-R painted on across its cars. Most of the track had rusted away.

But the most impressive relic by far stood off to the right, a Ferris wheel, on the center of which was painted their school mascot: Mickey Mouse.

That alone said something about the fairgrounds: they were old enough that Walt High had been the only school around when the wheel had been built. That dated this place back, what, fifty years? Probably more; the fact that the topmost Ferris wheel cars were lost in the treetops made it a good twenty years older than that.

"Belle, how did you _find_ this place?" asked Jim, turning full circle. He joined his friend at the base of the Ferris wheel. She was looking very pleased with herself, her rosy cheeks dimpled as she watched the Street Rats scurry about the fairgrounds. Jim snapped a shot of them, more for the satisfaction of feeling the machine whir beneath his fingers than anything.

"Papa's been working on a portable generator working for years," said Belle. "I didn't know what it was for until he showed me this place. He's got most of it running. Now all that's left is the Ferris wheel."

Jim took a few steps back, pinching his chin between his fingers.

Belle joined him. "Uh oh, I've seen that look before."

"I was just thinking," said Jim.

"Obviously."

He smirked. "If a single generator could power the maze and the roller coaster simultaneously, then that must mean they're both powered by the same core power source, right?"

Belle nodded thoughtfully. "Go on."

"Now, one reason the Ferris wheel's not working is that it's just too old."

"Or?"

Jim walked forward, resting a hand on the rusty metal railing. " _Or_ , it's possible that this thing runs on its own power source, which means . . ." He paused for dramatic effect. It worked: Belle leaned forward. "Well, for one thing," he continued, "it means the wheel was probably built much earlier than the rest of the park."

Belle joined him at the railing. "Can you imagine getting this thing running again?" she said wistfully. "What that would mean for the town? We'd be reviving an incredible piece of Waltville history!"

"If we don't break it first," said Jim, pointing up.

Belle's eyes followed his finger. "Ariel!" she gasped. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" the redhead snipped. Well, to Jim, it looked like she was scaling the spokes of the Ferris wheel. His stomach did a flip as he watched her, though not out of fear. Beneath a thin layer of what he liked to believe was common sense, there was a sudden, fierce desire to climb up after her.

 _But that would be dangerous_ , he told himself (in a tone that was unmistakably his mother's). Hadn't they just decided that this thing was antique?

Ariel peered down at him. Seeing she had an audience, she smiled and winked, gesturing for him to follow.

He immediately climbed over the remains of the metal barrier.

"Are you sure that's safe?" said Belle.

"I'm pretty positive it's not," Jim replied, grabbing the lowest wooden spoke. The once-smooth wood was now splitting and flakey, which meant that, even if the spoke could hold his weight, he'd be picking splinters out of his hands for weeks. He looked up. Ariel was five spokes above him, a third of the way up. His heart began to pound. He and Tarzan had their fun, no question, but Jim couldn't remember the last time he'd been truly _reckless_. With a loud, rushing din like an ocean in his ears—his own blood, he realized—he hung the camera by its strap around his neck and hoisted himself up, folding his stomach over the spoke as he swung his left leg up and over.

"Jim—" Belle was pressed up against the metal railing, looking more disappointed than scared for him, he realized. Her expression made him hesitate.

"Hey, what's that look for?" he said, forcing himself to laugh. Belle didn't reply, but her knuckles were white as she gripped the tarnished barrier. "Look," said Jim, "don't worry. I'm just gonna make sure she doesn't fall, alright?"

Belle bit her lip, glancing up at Ariel. Jim watched as something—frustration, maybe—flickered like a candlelight in her large, hazel eyes. Then she blinked, snuffing it out. "Just be careful, okay?" she said. Jim held her gaze before she turned at the sound of her name. Eric was calling her from the mouth of the maze.

Jim didn't get it. One second Belle was leading the expedition, the next . . . well, he supposed he'd have time to figure her out later.

Right now he had a wheel to climb.

"Hey, wait up!" he called, his heart revving in his chest.

Ariel bit her lip, picking up speed. Like Jim, she apparently couldn't resist a challenge. When she saw he was following her, she giggled and stuck out her tongue.

"Oh, I see how it is!" Jim laughed. Arm after arm, spoke after spoke, he pulled himself up. The groan of the old, wooden wheel was dangerously loud, and the crackle of splitting wood even louder. But he was catching up to Ariel, to his delight, and fast. He laughed breathlessly. "Almost there—no escape!"

Apparently this wasn't true, because when he looked up again, she'd completely vanished.

Panic made his head spin. He looked around. Had she fallen? He hadn't heard her scream, and from here to the ground below she'd certainly have time. His eyes combed the ground. Then, from somewhere above him, he heard the rustle of leaves, and he laughed. Of course. He was an idiot. He reached for the next spoke.

Suddenly there was a hideous CRACK. Jim reeled. But his outstretched hand caught the drive rim beside him, and he swung around it, gasping. He quickly analyzed the damage. _Crap._ The spoke he was standing on was splitting right under his feet.

Jim's vision was blurred with adrenaline. He had to move. _Now._ He looked up.

This next spoke looked farther away than the others. _It isn't_ , he reassured himself, but as the rotting wood bent and splintered beneath him, it certainly felt that way. Slowly, hesitantly, he released the drive rim and stretched a single hand upward. Now supporting Jim's full weight, the cracking spoke lurched, lowering him a full inch. The next spoke was officially out of reach.

His mind raced. There was only one thing to do, now: he'd have to push off of the breaking spoke and propel himself upward. The spoke would snap—he'd only have one shot at this. But he reminded himself that the alternative was a dizzying drop downward. He took three short breaths. Then, cringing, he bent his knees and pushed off. Sure enough, he heard a loud CRUNCH as the wood beneath him gave way, but in the same moment, he felt his splinter-riddled hands closed tightly around the upper spoke. He laughed harshly, exhilarated, and he pulled himself up.

He was now lost in the treetops.

"Ariel?"

She was sitting in a Ferris wheel car, surrounded by rustling leaves and twisting branches, her porcelain skin illuminated by the creamy lights—someone had set up Christmas lights up here. She grinned slyly. "Well, _you_ took your time, slow poke."

Jim looked down at his raw, red hands and laughed curtly. His heart was still pounding. "Right," he said, and he leaned against the drive rim, arms folded.

Ariel surveyed him for a moment, which made Jim want to turn right back around brave the climb downward. She must not have been _too_ disappointed by what she saw, though, because she let gravity slide her to one side, and she patted the seat beside her. "Join me?"

"You sure that thing can hold both of us?"

She shrugged.

Jim shrugged back, clambering in beside her. The metal car creaked in protest, but it didn't give way. It didn't even swing. Jim peered over the side and realized that two thick tree branches had grown out beneath it, crossing each other, creating a sort of cradle. He marveled. People like him and Maurice could conceptualize, create, and construct all they wanted, but at the end of the day, nature had a way of making things her own.

The pair sat in silence. This was a pretty romantic setting, Jim realized—horrified. Crickets and cicadas were chirping and humming all around them, and although the Ferris wheel lights irradiated their leafy surroundings, you could still see the Cheshire cat moon glowing through the tops of the trees. He swallowed. He hadn't been planning on making any kind of move on the beautiful redhead _ever_ . But he couldn't deny that his surroundings were pretty perfect if he had been. Clearly there were other forces at work here.

"You know," said Ariel, "I _live_ for moments like this."

Jim swallowed again. "M-moments like what?" Oh crap, was _she_ about to make the moves on _him?_ He wasn't ready. Where was his trusty wingman when he needed him? He doubted he'd be able to sneak Tarzan a text without Ariel seeing, and even if he could, Tarzan was probably with Jane. But he needed advice. Desperately.

He slowly went for his phone.

Meanwhile, Ariel shoved her hands between her knees and gazed up at the Cheshire Cat moon. "Moments when you realize that you haven't seen everything there is to see." She turned her body to face Jim, swinging her legs up to rest in his lap. "Life in Waltville can get kind of repetitive, don't you think?"

Jim's mind felt like a minefield of idiotic replies, made all the more unnavigable by the fog of her touch. He imagined closing his eyes and taking a cautious step forward. "'Repetitive' is the word," he ventured.

"I want to get out of here someday," said Ariel wistfully. "I want to be a singer, travel to California, maybe start my own band. Make it big, you know?"

"You have your own band," Jim reminded her.

She waved away his comment. "Yeah, but Naveen calls all the shots. I can't make a single suggestion in the writing process without being shut down. Don't get me wrong, I love the Street Rats' style, I always have. But I've got my _own_ style, and I want the world to hear it!"

Jim was trying desperately to concentrate on what she was saying, but not knowing what to do with his hands, especially while her long, porcelain legs were sitting in his lap, was proving to be too much. "Mm," he replied.

"I mean, rockin' out is great and all, but I'm more of an acoustic, musical-theatery type, ya know? I'd probably try out for all the plays if I wasn't so involved with swim team." She huffed then. "And if my sisters weren't already Monsieur Trouillefou's favorites." Monsieur Trouillefou was the theater teacher at Walt High. Eccentric, excitable, and utterly hilarious, he was a favorite among the students. On occasion, even the athletes tried out for his plays or took his classes, just for the experience (and the extracurricular credit). But there was no denying the man had his favorites, Ariel's sisters included.

Jim had opted to resting his linked hands on her knees. "Yeah, that's really sucky," he said.

"It is." She folded her arms across her chest, lips pursed. Mid-rant, her ample bangs had fallen across her face, completing the four-year-old pout she was currently sporting.

 _Brush her hair out of her eyes_ , a voice in Jim's mind whispered.

 _What? No!_

Do it,

the voice insisted.

Jim did not.

"You probably think I'm so immature," said Ariel, brushing her own bangs away.

"No, no," said Jim, "Sorry, I was just . . . thinking."

Suddenly Ariel's demeanor change—and not, Jim decided, for the better. "Oh? What about?" She leaned towards him.

Jim realized far too late that his mouth was hanging wide open. By the time he noticed, Ariel was already laughing at him. "Dude, you've really gotta loosen up!" She shoved his shoulder playfully, batting her eyelids. "Haven't you ever been alone with a girl before?"

Jim shook his head dumbly.

The redhead smiled at him. "You know, you've got a pretty dangerous thing going on, there, tough stuff. Sexy, bad boy exterior, squishy marshmallow center." She bit her lip. "Yeah, you'd better watch it, or some girl's gonna latch onto you"—she wrapped her fingers around his forearm—"and she'll never let go."

It was as if someone had set off an alarm in Jim's mind—GIRL! GIRL! GIRL!—sending Jim's emotions into complete pandemonium. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He was just about ready to curl up in the fetal position, when-

"Yo! Ariel! You up there?"

Aladdin's voice was muffled by both the trees and the distance between them, but it was definitely him. Ariel didn't move. "I'll be down in a minute!" she called, eyes still boring into Jim's.

"Hang on, I'm coming up—"

"Nah, don't bother!" said Ariel, releasing Jim's arm. She gave him a coy smile. "Nothing to see here."

With that she clambered over the side of the car and vanished beneath a sea of green. Jim watched the place where she'd disappeared for a good, long minute before turning his gaze back to the moon. What exactly had just happened? he wondered. Was it . . . good? When he finally climbed out of the car to make his precarious dissent, he stopped, grinning. _How can I come down there_ , he thought, _when I'm feeling so up_?


	12. Chapter 12

Maurice's was as busy the next day as Lumiere's had ever been. With Walt High Idol just hours away, an English paper of Jim's due Friday, and a mile-long list of projects Maurice needed help with, the overall clatter was enough to give anyone a headache. But even as Belle massaged her temples, she refused to set Jim's paper aside, determined to see her task of editing the disaster through to the end.

So, Jim had decided to work on his orb.

For the life of him, he still couldn't figure out what the problem was. For about five minutes at a time, the orb would work like a dream. Then, zap—nothing.

Well, whatever it was, it wasn't the wiring. Jim had built and rebuilt that thing from scratch a hundred times over. No question, the construction was sound. _Unless_ , he thought, _the quality of the wires is somehow an issue_. That would suck. Jim didn't have the money to upgrade his materials, not even on Maurice's generous pay, and considering Belle would be graduating this year, he didn't have a whole lot of time, either. Not if he wanted her help on the project.

He tossed the orb between his hands, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. Then he unlocked the device and let the holographic memories stream out. No hitches with the startup, as usual. He watched the little boy with the toy ship, older-him with his project, eleven-year-old Jim with his pet. Each image playing back to him with perfect clarity.

Perfect clarity . . . now _that_ was a thought. He'd been so focused on getting the thing to run, it hadn't even occurred to him that there might not be enough _space_ for the intricate little projections. But what could he do about it? Building machines was one thing; messing with kilobytes and gigabytes (or whatever you called them) was another.

What he needed was an IT whiz, someone who understood computers and software better than anyone . . .

Jim snapped his fingers. He knew just the kid.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

Lassater Theater was packed with people, but conversations ebbed to a few low whispers as Kuzco, a well-liked junior (he sure liked himself, anyway), took the stage.

"Boys and girls—and llamas, apparently, or is that your mother?" A rumble of laughter. "We welcome you to history's very first—and I hope the very last, I'm kind of over this, guys— _Walt High Idol!_ "

The auditorium filled with laughter and applause. No doubt about it, Kuzco was a natural with the crowd. It was no small wonder the school board always recruited him to M.C. their events.

"Now before we get started, I'm gonna tell you how this whole ordeal works. Basically, you guys pick the winner. Nice, huh? Yeah, I tried to convince them to let me judge, but nobody went for that idea. Lame sauce. Anyway! Eight brave individuals are gonna get up here and sing, then whoever gets the loudest applause wins, blah, blah, blah, you get the idea. Alright! Let's get this party started! Can I get a BOOM baby?"

The audience echoed his cheer. Meanwhile, Jim and Belle had stationed themselves the doorway like rocks in a stream as people continued to pour in around them. This was quickly turning out to be the most attended non-football event the school had hosted in years, but Jim had more to worry about than finding a seat. He'd only heard about Wade from Belle, who tutored the kid in English once a week. Apparently he was a prodigy, due to graduate from the high school curriculum in the next couple of years. If anyone could help Jim sort out his storage space issue, it was Wade.

The trick would be getting him away from his computers and into the real world.

"Are you _sure_ he's coming?" Jim whispered to his friend.

"He told me he would," Belle replied. "He didn't seem too keen, though."

Jim shrugged. _Fair enough_. If the Street Rats weren't performing tonight, he probably wouldn't have come either. He just hoped Belle's request (and her long eyelashes) were enough to get the kid out of his basement and into the real world. Hey, it would have worked for him.

Suddenly, something solid—a brick wall, it felt like—slammed into Jim, and he went sprawling forward. He spun on his heels. Like a hunter and his loyal dog, Gaston entered the room with Kay hot on his heels. Jim braced himself for a fight, but apparently the pair hadn't even noticed him. The strapping seniors continued to muscle their way through the crowd, huffing and snorting like a couple of big, dumb animals. Jim kept low, realizing too late that he was using Belle as a shield.

"You okay?" she asked him.

He stumbled away from her, blushing furiously. "What? Yeah. I mean, I don't know what you're talking about."

Belle arched a skeptical brow, but she didn't press the matter further. Meanwhile, Kuzco was busting out a few of his signature dance moves, earning a slew of cat calls from the audience. That gave Jim an idea. His eyes followed the spotlight until they'd locked onto the one place he hadn't thought to look. _Bingo_ , he thought, and he took Belle's hand. "Follow me."

The first performer, a determined-looking freshman named Alice, had stepped out onto the stage by the time they'd wound their way up to the control booth. Belle and Jim slipped in undetected.

Well, almost.

"Hey!" someone snapped: Megara Underwood. Jim blinked at her in surprise. He hadn't realized she was techy until now. "No, not you, Fix-It," she hissed into her headset. "Somebody just waltzed in here like they owned the place." She cupped a hand around the mic as she turned to face them. "No civs allowed, read the sign." She waved at a piece of scrap paper taped to the door. Sure enough, it read, "NO CIVILIANS" in bright red ink.

Belle ignored it. "Hey, Meg!" she said cheerfully. "We're just looking for someone."

But Meg's attention had already returned to her task. She made a sign for them to pipe down, pressing her headset harder against her ears. Then she brought a hand to hover over the buttons and knobs, displaying long, purple fingernails, before selecting a dial and twisting it clockwise. Slowly, the lights on the stage to fade from white to a deep sea-blue. "There we go," she muttered.

"We're looking for a kid," said Jim. "His name is"—then he noticed a small, roundish figure peeking out at them from behind Meg.

"Wade?" said Belle. Jim gaped. He'd been expecting someone two, maybe three years younger than him. He hadn't been expecting a _child_. The boy, dark-skinned and curly-haired, looked to be about eleven, and that was assuming he was short for his age. Belle waved at him. "Hi!"

He waved back shyly. "Hey, Belle. W-what's up?"

Jim pointed at Wade. "Mind if we borrow him?"

"Oh, sure," said Meg. "I was just showing him the ropes. Kid's got a knack for technology. You'd be a good guy-in-the-chair," she added to Wade.

"Really?" Wade's eyes lit up the darkened room.

Jim and Belle exchanged a puzzled glance.

"Come on," said Meg to them. "The guy in the chair? The one who tells spies and superheroes where to go so they don't get themselves killed? Hooks them up with sweet rides? Cool gadgets? For sure, this kid would be a pro."

Wade was practically glowing with pride. "That's exactly why we came to see him," said Jim. "Hey, Wade. I'm Jim. I've got something I need you to look at. Think you could help me?"

"Please?" Belle added sweetly. Jim bit back a smirk. The girl sure could milk it when she wanted to.

With a bashful nod, Wade consented, and they all took a seat on the object taking up 85% of the room's available space: an enormous, black-leather couch.

"Okay, look," said Meg, "you guys can stay, but you have to keep _really_ quiet or Fix-It down there's gonna bust my butt."

"Fix-It?" Jim and Belle asked in unison.

"Mr. Felix," said Wade. "He manages all of the Lassater Theater productions."

Ah, so that's why Jim had never heard of him; he made it a point to keep away from anything involving the stage. "Got it," he said. "Will do." Then he turned to the kid, keeping his voice low to a low murmur. "So, I've got this project I've been working on. I need you to look at it." He drew the orb out of his pocket and held it out.

Wade didn't look especially impressed. "Uh, what's it do?"

Jim twisted the orb, punching in the correct combination of symbols until it whirred to life. The memories played out before them, and Wade's eyes became as wide as saucers. "Is that . . . you?" he asked, incredulous.

"Yeah."

The kid reached out, his fingers piercing holograph-Jim's face. " _Whoa,_ " he exclaimed. Then, right on cue, the images flickered to a halt and vanished. "Wait, what happened?"

"Exactly," said Jim. "That's why I need your help. I think I may have run out of space on the device and it's messing with the playback. Think you could help me out with that?"

Wade pinched his chin. "Space issue, huh? How big are the holograph files?"

Jim shrugged. "You tell me."

"What program did you use to transfer them into the machine?"

While they discussed the particulars of Jim's creation, five of the eight total contestants performed: three blonde cheerleaders (who sounded exactly alike, but performed separately), Ella Cinders, and a strange-looking kid named Quasimodo, who no one seemed to recognize. As the seventh contestant took the stage, Belle moved to Meg's side at the control panel. She pulled up a chair, staring down at the hundreds of switches. Then she reached for the extra set of headphones. Meg didn't seem to mind. The pair watched the next performance, enthralled.

"Wow, she's amazing," Jim heard Belle comment.

Meg nodded. "What do you think? Shall we strobe her?"

Belle gave her the thumbs up. Outside, the crowd was going out of their minds, outdoing, Jim thought, even the rowdiest Walt-High sports fans. Awed, he paused to listen. He could barely here the contestant over their cries.

"Who's singing?" he asked while Wade examined the orb.

"Vanessa. She just finished," said Belle. She sounded mildly disappointed. Well, who could blame her? There was no living with Vanessa now; letting her walk away with the title of "Walt High idol" would only make her more of a pain than ever. That being said, if she was performing half as well as the crowd's enthusiasm implied, than maybe she deserved to win. Jim shrugged, telling himself he didn't care either way. Still, he couldn't keep from leaping to his feet when the Street Rats came on.

Ariel was dazzling in a turquoise-sequin skirt and a sleek purple top. (Jim seized the opportunity to gape.) Her fellow bandmates cleaned up pretty nicely as well, earning themselves a swell of screams from their devoted fangirls. The Street Rats acknowledged them graciously. Then Jim held his breath as screams fell to silent anticipation, and Aladdin counted them off.

The song, a Street-Rats original called "The Circle of Life," was surprisingly good. Veering away from their usual punk-pop style, it embraced a classic-rock-meets-African-traditional style that most of the Street Rats had been hesitant to attempt. But as usual, Naveen's vision had reached far beyond what anyone else could see, and, as he'd predicted, the crowd was eating it up. By the final chorus, the crowd was cheering so loudly the walls of the control booth were quivering around them. Jim and Belle high-fived as Ariel hit one final, breath-taking note, and the song came to an end.

" _Wow!_ " Kuzco had returned to the stage, and he threw an arm over Ariel's shoulder. "Babe, that was amazing, seriously. Oh, and you guys were okay too, I guess." He waved dismissively at the rest of the Street Rats. "Well, according to my handy dandy cheer-o-meter, we're down to two contestants as the crowd favorites. Will Vanessa Ursula join the Street Rats on stage, please?"

A roar of applause met Vanessa's long, confident stride. She slinked her arm around Kuzco's waist, and the M.C. released Ariel to give her his full attention. Ariel frowned.

"We are down to our two finalists, ladies and gentlemen!" Kuzco exclaimed. "That means it's time to decide: who do _you_ think deserves the title of Walt High Idol?" He held up a device in his hand which Jim assumed was for measuring sound waves. "Lemme hear you shout for Vanessa Ursula!"

The auditorium filled with raucous applause. Jim shook his head. She was going to win. There was no way the rest of the room could meet that noise level, never mind top it. He cringed as his eyes found Gaston and Kay. They were standing, roaring, their hands cupped over their mouths. Oh, how he wanted them to lose.

"Okay, got that number, logged it away. Now, Street Rat fans, let's raise the roof!"

To Jim's surprise, the ovation that followed was, at the very least, respectable. Even when Gaston and Kay shoved a couple of cheering students back down in their seats, the loss wasn't enough to dent the Street Rats' fighting chance. Jim wrung his hands together.

"Alright, alright, you don't need to yell. I can hear you, _geez_." Kuzco waved his hands in front of him and the crowd fell silent. "Okay. The numbers are in. We have our winner. This year's Idol _is . . ._ " He paused for a dramatic effect.

Jim wanted to wring his scrawny little neck. _Just tell us alread-_

"THE STREET RAAAAAAAATS!"

Both the stage and the audience exploded with delight. Meanwhile, Vanessa, who'd actually slapped Kuzco full across the face, stormed off stage. No one (Kuzco aside) seemed to notice or care.

Belle was beaming at Jim's side in the control booth. Even Meg seemed semi-pleased with the outcome, although she was already chatting with someone on the phone. "Hey, babe. Yeah, it's over. Nah, not here, there are people around. I mean, _I_ don't care but you're such a goodie-goodie . . ."

Meanwhile, Jim was trying to hide his excitement behind an wry half-smile. He really was ecstatic for them, all of them. They'd worked so hard. They _deserved_ to win. He even kind of hoped he'd be invited to the post-win celebration.

This hope was very short-lived, however, because as the Street Rats were celebrating their victory, what happened next made both Jim and Aladdin go slack with horror:

Ariel grabbed Eric by the shirt, pulled him down towards her, and with all the enthusiasm she'd put into her performance, she planted her bright red lips on his.


	13. Chapter 13

Three shops to the right of Books and Crannies, Frozone's Ice Cream Parlor was hopping with Waltville-ites. This wasn't unusual. Its gleaming, gold-trimmed windows were often lined with giggling couples and cheerful families. But on Saturday afternoon, the place was packed to its limits, forcing Jim, Belle, and the Street Rats to enjoy their treats in the chilly October air.

They huddled together on the edge of the square's central feature, a lavish, three-tiered fountain, and attempted to enjoy themselves. For some, this was proving more difficult than they'd have liked.

Naveen, at least, was in good spirits. He was already making plans for the band's debut album: "First, we release our first single, approximately six months from now. Then we follow it up with a pre-order release date, a new photoshoot, and limited-edition t-shirts. Once we've drawn our listeners in with another spectacular single, we—"

And the ice cream, of course, was to die for. Jim and Belle had gone for a Monster Sundae to split (a volcano of vanilla garnished with every available topping in the shop), Aladdin was stirring a Groot-Beer Float, and Naveen was enjoying an Incredible Creamsicle Shake. But no matter how hard they tried, no one could quite adjust to the elephant couple in the room.

Jim's stomach twisted whenever he looked at them.

Right now they were at the epicenter of Walt-High gossip, and no wonder. The whole thing had come out of left field, leaving would-be admirers—both Ariel's and Eric's—to flounder in their wake. According to the locker-room chatter, it seemed there were plenty more of those where Jim came from.

What made Jim want to punch through a wall, though, was that Eric hadn't even _liked_ Ariel. While Jim and Aladdin had been tripping all over themselves to get her attention (Jim had even thought Aladdin was doing decently well), Eric's eyes had always, _always_ been on every other girl in the room: Belle, the Poole sisters, even Vanessa.

 _Especially Vanessa_ , thought Jim as he shoveled another bite of ice cream into his mouth.

However bitter his feelings, though, he knew he wasn't alone. Aladdin had demonstrated this on an untouched plate of lunch the day after the kiss, stabbing it to death with his fork while Ariel and Eric waited hand-in-hand in the lunch line.

"I do not know why you are such a worry wart," Naveen had said to him. "The whole thing will bowl over in no time. You will see."

It was a kind gesture, but watching the happy couple now, Jim wasn't so sure.

"You okay?"

His head snapped up. Belle was watching him, her dimpled cheeks pink with cold, face framed by a forest of curls and a bright yellow beanie. Jim nodded hurriedly. "Mm hmm."

She shook her head. "Well, I think it's weird." She didn't have to explain; Jim knew exactly who she was talking about. He shot the couple a hesitant glance. By some dark magic, Ariel had managed to get ice cream on the exact tip of her nose, and she leaned towards Eric expectantly. In a single, fluid motion—without even looking, really—Eric removed the fleck with a flick of his finger, licking the contents off with a wicked smirk in her direction. She swooned. It was like watching a professional demonstration.

Jim felt a hand on his shoulder.

"I'd give them two weeks," said Belle. Jim flushed, horrified. He realized he'd been clenching his fists so tightly he was breaking the Styrofoam ice cream container. But as he dared to meet Belle's gentle gaze, any shame he might have felt completely melted away. He sighed deeply, fingers relaxing.

"I guess I just thought . . ." He shrugged. Then he shrugged again.

Belle seemed to understand. "Two weeks," she said again, winking. "And in the meantime"—she brought her spoon to their gargantuan dessert, digging out a topping-heavy dollop and holding it up like a glass of champagne. Jim followed suit. They held up their spoons.

" _All_ the ice cream," said Jim.

Belle's eyes rolled back in her head. Her dollop was already gone, solid gone.

* * *

Ah, Homecoming Week.

Like most major school events, Jim was prepared to ignore it completely. After all, dances weren't his thing, parades weren't his thing, and football most definitely was not his thing. At least in the past he'd had Tarzan to chill with until all the commotion blew over, but as Tarzan would undoubtedly be taking Jane to the Homecoming Ball this year (Jim had even encouraged him to), it seemed Jim would have to find other ways to pass the time.

Right on cue, Belle joined him in the hallway. "Pep rally time," she said with a sigh.

Jim nodded. "Remind me why they put us through this again."

In an exaggerated gesture, Belle removed her reading glasses, setting them carefully into a rose-patterned case. "According to my research," she said stuffily, "pep rallies were once held by ancient civilizations to pay tribute to the god of war."

"Let me guess. Now we pay tribute to the god of football."

Belle laughed, and then she snorted, much to her horror. "That's right," she said, covering her nose.

But it was too late. The skater nudged her, chuckling. "Whoa! What was that _unladylike_ noise you just made?"

"I-I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Oh, here, let me show you. It was something like this"—he jabbed his fingers into her ribs, wiggling them mercilessly. Belle shoved her attacker away, but not before the hallway was echoing with her laughter. When she finally dared let him near her again, Jim slung his arm over her shoulder, gasping out his own apology; he was laughing as hard as she was.

They entered the gym together.

Around them, enormous, mouse-adorned banners surged in an air-con breeze, topped by a ceiling of colorful balloons: red, black, and yellow, the school's colors. Out on the floor, the marching band, lead by Roger Radcliffe, was blasting the school's cheer song at full capacity:

 _Who's the mascot of the school_  
 _That's made for you and me?_  
 _M-I-C,_  
 _K-E-Y,_  
 _M-O-U-S-E!_

These lyrics were sung most passionately by the cheerleaders: the three identical blondes, a spunky sophomore named Tink, a tan, athletic junior named Kida (whose ethnicity Jim couldn't quite pinpoint) and, of course, Aroura, Snow, and Ella. This made for an unusually nice group of cheerleaders, Jim thought, even counting the silly blondes. Silliness, he decided, was a forgivable trait. There were certainly worse things to be, anyway.

Speaking of which.

Jim watched as Vanessa and the Tremaine sisters filed into a lower row of bleachers, sending two unsuspecting freshman sprawling in their wake. The boy, a feisty redhead in green, actually got to his feet to fight back, but the girl beside him tugged him backward, her elegant ringlets bouncing against her neck. Jim snorted as she waggled a motherly finger at him. To his surprise, however, this seemed to defuse the boy somewhat, who sat back down, albeit muttering irritably to himself. But one simple motion, a dainty hand intertwining with his, and an impish grin flashed across his face. He leaned into her.

Jim shook his head. Nothing like a pretty face to keep you from doing something stupid.

On the other hand, Vanessa's coldness didn't surprise him at all. Word was she and Gaston had had another tiff, leading to yet another messy breakup. No doubt they'd be back together in a week, but in the meantime, the infamous posse would be split up temporarily, and Jim was going to enjoy every second of it.

Speaking of posses, "Oh, there"—he lead Belle's gaze towards their own group of friends, seated up in the bleachers to their left. Clambering into the bleachers, Belle and Jim joined their ranks, slipping into the space beside Tarzan and Jane—whom Jim was surprised to see there.

"Hey, Jimbo!" Tarzan stood and gave his friend a brief hug. "Sup, man?"

"Hey! Nothin' much." As they embraced, Jim caught sight of Jane over Tarzan's shoulder. She waved at him sheepishly. He knew what she was thinking: _it's my fault you haven't seen Tarzan in a while_. She had a point, but Jim understood. Or, at least, he tried to, although he himself had never dated. All he knew was that he liked Jane, and, more importantly, he liked her for Tarzan. So, he reassured her with a broad smile and a thumbs-up. "Jane! You doing okay?"

"Yes, thank you! I'm doing splendidly."

"Awesome."

"Jim! Hey, man!"

"Hey, Al." The nickname slipped out easier than he would have imagined. "What's new?"

Al shrugged despondently. "Oh. You know." Jim understood him perfectly.

The skater took a moment to look around. When you got them together like this, the Street Rats, Tarzan, Jane, and Belle, who was currently waving Milo over, adding to their numbers, they tallied up to be quite the squad. Funny how quickly things could change. To think that, just a few weeks ago, he and Tarzan would have been two misfits in a room full of strangers. And now here they were, finally fit with a place to belong. Jim couldn't help himself. He beamed.

Now all they were missing was the happy couple. Jim combed the crowd, half-expecting to find them curled up in a corner somewhere. Then he remembered: Eric would be in the band on flute, and Ariel would be ready to line up with this year's swim team. Well, maybe that was for the best. He could use the break from all the nauseating affection. _Just a week and a half_ , he reminded himself. He only hoped Belle was right.

"Milo, hey, man." Jim greeted the scrawny junior as he approached, taking his hand and shaking it warmly. Maybe Milo didn't realize they had a common enemy, but it made Jim feel as though they were already friends.

Milo stuttered awkwardly as he pushed his gargantuan glasses up the bridge of his nose: "H-hey, guys! Oh, not much. Just . . . well, pep rallies. You know. Not really my thing." He held up a thick, leather-bound book as if to prove his point. "Brought something to do."

"What's that?" asked Belle eagerly.

Milo's eyes lit up. "Oh, this? It's actually my grandfather's. He discovered it during one of his expeditions way back in the day, long before I was born. He died last year. I've been trying to decipher its meaning ever since, but, well. I'm no expert. Not yet, anyway. But I will be, someday!"

Belle's eyes were getting wider by the second. "What do you mean, 'decipher?' "

But before Milo could answer, Jim nudged him, nodding towards the floor. "Hey, Thatch, I think you've caught somebody's eye."

Milo turned, frowning through his thick spectacles. Sure enough, Kida was glancing Milo's way—or, staring, more accurately. She beamed, her eyes fixed on the junior as her team punched out their rigorous routine. Jim nudged Milo again. "Dude, she's totally checking you out!"

"You think so? I mean, no, she isn't. She definitely isn't. She couldn't be . . . is she?"

Jim nodded encouragingly.

The look on Milo's face as this gospel truth sank in made Jim bust a gut. The kid's cheeks lit up like a furnace, and he went completely slack, sinking dumbly onto the steps between the bleacher seats. Jim suppressed another burst of laughter. "Well? Are you gonna make a move?"

But poor, dumbstruck Milo didn't even have time to consider this. With a signal from their coach, Ms. Esmeralda, the cheerleaders cleared the floor and the pep rally began.

Kuzco, of course, was this evening's M.C.. He greeted his fellow students with his usual sarcastic flair, and announced the first event: a mini game of 'sleeping bag chariot races' between the basketball team and the soccer team. Jim took this as his cue to zone out. While Belle subtly pulled out a book beside him, he drew the golden orb from his backpack and began to tinker, Milo watching eagerly over his shoulder.

As the crowd continued to chatter, only half-distracted by the spectacle in front of them, Kuzco invited the football team to the floor, regaining most of his audience in one fell swoop. No doubt about it, this school loved their football. The gym exploded with cheers as, like well-trained soldiers, the team jogged onto the floor in single file.

His friends were among some of the most avid fans:

"Yeah, Herc! You got this, dude!"

"You da man, Phillip! You da MAN!"

"SHAAAAAAAAAAAANG! ALRIGHT, SHANG!"

Jim rolled his eyes. It wasn't football itself that bothered him. He'd found that he could even get into a game now and then if it came up on television. What he couldn't stomach, however, was the blatant player-worship that accompanied the sport. Being athletic was great and all (Jim liked to think that skating counted for something). But around here being able to kick a ball made you something of a god, and that made Jim, well, jealous. Sick with it, if he was perfectly honest. As he listened to the bellows of his peers, he couldn't help but wish that part of it was for him.

His pity party was interrupted, however, as another voice came rumbling over the speaker system. Jim snapped to attention. Gaston had just stolen the mic from Kuzco.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the offensive tackle boomed in his rich baritone voice. "Thank you, thank you, for you unbelievable support this afternoon. I know I speak for the entire team when I say _none_ of this would be possible without our adoring fans—I'm looking at you, ladies." He winked at the three blondes, who melted into a puddle of pom-poms.

Jim swore he saw Shang and Phillip roll their eyes, but the crowd validated Gaston's feigned humility with a round of applause.

The senior continued. "This week we celebrate what makes our school great, and one of those things is the go-getter spirit of its students. Am I right? We're dreamers, and when we dream, we dream _big_." He flexed the bulbous muscles in his left arm as if this somehow emphasized his point, and once again, the student body cheered.

Kuzco actually went for the mic, now, but Gaston brushed him off with a flick of his meaty wrist.

"Speaking of dreams," he went on, "this is the day someone's dreams come true. Picture this." With a snap of his fingers (and a dangerous look towards the sound booth), the lights in the gym faded, and the image of an exceptionally long limousine appeared in streams of bluish light across the billowing banners.

"A luxurious ride."

A loud click. The image switched to a candle-lit dinner table.

"Dinner for two, roasting over the fire."

The crowd oo'd, then another click. Now a selfie of Gaston was plastered across the banners. In the photo, he was dressed to the nines, holding a corsage in one hand as he smouldered the camera. True to form, he'd tilted the camera up at him in a way that accentuated his pecs. This was met with a number of catcalls.

"This year," said Gaston, "I've got a special date planned for a special lady here at Walt High—Belle!"

Jim dropped the orb with a dull _thunk_.

"Whaddya say? Will you be my princess at the Homecoming Ball?"

As the crowd went wild with surprise and suspense—the silly blondes actually burst into tears—horror swept through Jim like a wildfire, burning straight through him until he was numb with it. He looked from Gaston to the screen to Belle and then back again. Belle in the limo, Belle at that candle-lit table, Belle on Gaston's arm, Belle's waist _in his thick, greedy hands_.

She was _not_ going to Homecoming with him. She just . . . couldn't.

But as he glanced over at his friend, all hope for her died. She was too nice, he knew that, deep down. She could never humiliate anyone in front of the entire school, not even the boorish Gaston. Not even if he deserved it.

"So, what'll it be, Belle?" the senior boomed. "Is it yes, or, is it _oh_ yes?"

With a composure that Jim could only describe as queenly, Belle stood, and the room fell deathly silent.

"Gaston," she called down to him. "Thank you for your generous invitation. I really am, um . . . speechless."

Whispers bubbled throughout the student body. Jim kneaded his temples. _I should have just asked her_ , he thought furiously. _I should have just manned up and taken her myself, then she wouldn't have to_ -

"And while I'm very, very flattered," Belle continued, still cool as a cucumber. "I'm afraid . . ."

Hope sparked in Jim's chest. He looked up at her, agog.

"I just don't deserve you."

If Jim had thought the crowd at Walt High Idol was rowdy, they had nothing on the apocalyptic roar that exploded from the student body now. The cheerleaders squealed with relief, the band broke into a dismal _whop-whop-whoooomp_ , and even the football players had broken into fits of laughter. Meanwhile, Belle, still maintaining her composure, immediately excused herself, ignoring Jim's hand as he reached out to stop her. She needed to be alone.

He let her go, but he kept his eyes sharp as she went, only resolving not to follow her when he was sure the beet-purple, blustering Gaston wasn't going to chase after her. Thankfully, Gaston did not, but as he surveyed his social demise, his eyes trailed up to find Jim's.

They narrowed into dagger-sharp slits.

* * *

Belle was taking notes so quickly Jim thought her notebook might catch fire.

She'd opted for a front row seat where she could focus on the lesson, even when Jim had patted the empty seat beside him. At least she had offered him an apologetic smile as she went. It was the most interaction they'd had since the pep rally.

He couldn't blame her for being distant. Ever since yesterday's showdown, she'd been the target for both condemning and compassionate comments from the entire student body. To Jim's bewilderment, a few thought she'd been a snob, and they'd been very vocal about it, but overall most of the students were sympathetic to her position—as they should have been. Gaston was a jerk, first-class, and they knew it. She'd had every reason to refuse him.

But she was paying for it now, dearly. Belle may not have shown it, but the beautiful senior was drowning under all of this scrutiny. Jim could see it.

At least Vanessa hadn't given her any trouble—yet. As she was undoubtedly aware, starting a cat fight now would only make her look desperate, and that was something Vanessa couldn't afford. Not right now. Not while Belle was so much of a hero in so many eyes. Jim only hoped the distance would last. Belle could take care of herself, but he'd already failed her once. If Vanessa got to her before he did . . .

He flipped out his phone, typing the words 'can I help' into their message thread, but he let them sit there, unsent. They may have been friends, he and Belle, but he was coming to understand that she was, among many things, a very private person. If she hadn't reached out to him yet, chances are she still needed her space. So, with a defeated sigh, he deleted the draft and looked down at his own blank notebook. He really didn't feel like designing today.

Suddenly, every head turned as the classroom door opened, and in stepped Anita Radcliffe.

Maurice was with her.

"Can I help you?" Ms. Tremaine asked sharply.

"My apologies, Ms. Tremaine. I'm looking for—"

But Belle had already risen from her seat. For a moment, she and her father just looked at each other. Jim watched as something horrible and heavy passed between them. Then, without so much as asking to be excused, Belle quickly tucked her things into her bag and hurried from the room, wrapping an arm around her father as they disappeared down the hall.

Mrs. Radcliffe held up an apologetic hand. She shut the door.

For a moment, no one moved. No one said a word. Then Ms. Tremaine broke the silence. "Alright, class," she said with a clap. "Focus, please. Let's move on to chapter eight."

But Jim's phone was already out beneath his desk. Something was wrong, he could feel it prickling beneath his skin like insects. Without a second thought, he tapped out the words 'what do you need,' and sent them off. He only prayed that, whatever it was, there was something he could do.


	14. Chapter 14

It was half-time at the Homecoming game, and Jim was taking a much-needed break.

He still couldn't believe he'd let the Street Rats talk him into coming. Granted, he hadn't heard from or seen Belle in almost two days—he needed something to do besides _worrying_ about her, and if that meant watching a bunch of glorified kick-the-can players toss each other around for fun, well then. Jim decided he could be okay with that.

Besides, the Street Rats had been so enthusiastic about his coming, even Eric and Ariel. It turned out they'd all planned out their fan attire down to the last detail, and although Jim had drawn the line at face paint, he knew his usual excuses just weren't going to cut it this time. So, come he had, even dressed in their school colors (heaven help him) as he made his way to the bathrooms.

He'd had to wend his way back towards the locker rooms. The other two bathrooms were packed with desperate fans, and as Jim was only trying to pass the time anyway, he'd figured he could afford the short walk. But just as he'd finished up, sliding the stall lock from 'occupied' to 'vacant' again, a group of people barged into the bathroom.

Jim staggered back, the stall door swinging open an inch. He was about to peer out to see who was causing the commotion when he realized he recognized the voices.

He cursed.

Milo Thatch was stammering, pleading, but whoever was with him didn't seem to care. They escorted him to the far stall, kicking the door open and tossing Milo inside—Jim heard Milo grunt as he collided with the side of the toilet seat.

The chuckle was unmistakably Kay's. "Be careful with him, Gaston. He's delicate."

Gaston growled, and Milo gave a yelp of terror. "No, no, no, wait, guys, I swear I—"

His pleas died with a splash of water and a series of muffled spluttering sounds. Sweat beaded Jim's forehead. What should he do? Should he run for help? _What should he do?_ He was about to pull out his phone when Milo resurfaced, spewing germy water and gasping for air.

"Come on, nerd," jeered Gaston. "What _exactly_ did you say to Vanessa?"

Jim clenched his fists. So _that's_ what this was about. He couldn't believe it. Milo was as likely to flirt with Vanessa as he was to jump into a river of piranhas, and Gaston knew it. Besides, hadn't Gaston made it clear his taste ran more towards Belle these days? Apparently, for Gaston and Kay, pain was worth causing for its own sake.

"I d-didn't say an-nything, Gaston, I swear!"

Jim cringed: wrong answer. The sound of splashing and coughing echoed off the porcelain walls.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" roared Gaston.

Meanwhile, the feeling had finally returned to Jim's legs, and he stepped forward, sliding carefully through the space in the open stall door. The door creaked against his back, but apparently no one noticed, because the ruthless interrogation continued without pause. Jim counted his steps, knowing any of them could be his last. But he didn't make for the exit—that would have been the smart option; instead Jim found himself moving towards the sink across from their stall.

He couldn't believe his luck. These sinks were the old-fashioned kind, pipes exposed and most likely terribly neglected (unless Edgar, the janitor, had actually done his job, which Jim doubted). Jim knew exactly how they functioned. He should have, anyway; he'd grown up fixing pipes just like these in his house. With a deep, shuddering breath, far louder than Jim had intended (he paused to make sure he hadn't been discovered), he knelt down beside it, and began to loosen the locknut.

He wished desperately he'd brought his tools with him to the game. This would have been a much easier task with a good wrench in his hand. Instead, he had to prop himself up against the wall and work at the pipe in a series of well-timed kicks (he tried to coordinate them with Gaston and Kay's louder moments). Finally, though, the locknut began to relinquish its grip, and Jim reached up, flipping both faucet handles on full blast. Then he gave the pipe one final boot.

In an instant, there was water _everywhere_ , spraying harder and farther than Jim could have hoped if he'd planned this. It shot through the open stall, nailing the football players square in the uniforms with a satisfying _ksshhh_.

But Jim didn't have time to watch his handy work. He had to go—now. He scrambled for the exit, slipping once in a growing puddle before flying out into the hallway with a squeal from his wet sneakers. Behind him, Gaston and Kay were bellowing like a couple of wounded buffalo, but Jim didn't look back, not even to see if Milo had had the sense to escape yet. He had to keep running.

"Dude, why are you all wet?" Aladdin inquired when Jim finally slumped back into his seat. Jim, breathless, waved the question off with a hand.

Naveen glanced over at his friend. "Looks like the toilet tried to swallow him, no?" He chuckled.

Jim shot them both a wry smile. He was still puffing too hard to explain what had happened. It turned out he didn't have to. As the third quarter fired up, Coach Clayton looked like he was about to shoot something, a look that inflamed when his missing players finally came jogging onto the field. Jim snorted. They were still sopping wet from his impromptu plumbing job.

"Well, well," said Aladdin, his face a tri-split of black, red, and yellow. "I wonder how that happened."

Jim shrugged. "Figured the towel boy needed something to do."

Naveen was laughing too hard to comment.

* * *

Jim cracked his front door open with a ninja-like proficiency befitting any rebellious teenager. He quickly realized his efforts had been pointless, however, as his mom had waited up for him.

Sort of.

She jerked awake, uncoiling like a spring across the couch. "Oh, hey, hon!" she said, rubbing her eyes. "Did you have fun?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah, it was . . . eventful. We won."

"That's great!" Mrs. Hawkins switched off the television, reaching for the bowl on the coffee table and scooping the last bite of its contents into her mouth. "This was actually pretty good when it was warm. Do you want some?"

"Sure. Thanks, mom."

He kissed the top of her head and made his way to the kitchen. "What were you watching?"

"Some movie from the 60's. It was pretty funny! The Apple Dumpling . . . something or other. We should order it on Amazon. I think you'd get a kick out of it."

Jim switched on the gas stove, dumping the contents of a crumpled Tupperware into a pot before leaning forward to watch it reheat. His nose wrinkled. The kitchen was spotless, Mrs. Hawkins made sure of that, but if Jim forgot not to breathe in too deeply, he could still make out the faintest trace of cigarette smell that his dad had left behind. Over the years, Jim had Googled a hundred and one different ways to get rid of it, but the best advice the internet had had to offer was 'sell the house,' or 'buy new furniture.' So far they'd only been able to do the latter. Who knew, though? If things kept up at Maurice's, maybe they'd be able to get a bigger place soon, invest in that hotel Jim's mom had always dreamed of running.

He entertained himself with these thoughts until his soup began to bubble.

"Did you hear what I said?" asked Mrs. Hawkins.

"No, sorry." Jim grabbed a bowl and served himself, bringing it with him into the living room. He joined his mom on the couch.

"I said you seem different."

He closed his mouth around a spoonful of soup. "Mm?"

"Well, you actually came and sat by me tonight, miracle of miracles." She regarded him shrewdly. "What changed? Is it a girl?"

"Mom"—he rolled his eyes, and she laughed—" _no._ "

"What, then?"

He told her a little about the Street Rats, about Walt High Idol and the abandoned fairgrounds and rehearsals at Maurice's. "Remember?" he added. "I think you took a toaster there once."

"You mean the cottage at Tulgey? He seemed like a nice man!"

"Yeah, he is." Jim swallowed. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to tell his mom about the job, about Belle and his orb and-

But just then he felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket. He slipped it out, flicking it open to reveal Belle's caller ID. "One sec," he said, standing so quickly his soup nearly sloshed onto the carpet. "Belle, hey, are you okay? Everyone's been asking about you."

Belle sounded unnaturally chipper on the other end of the line. "Jim!" she chirped. "Hi! Um, I was just wondering if you—" But then her voice caught, and she quickly fell silent.

Walking slowly to the bottom of the stairs, Jim waited, soup still in hand. "Belle," he said, finally. "What happened?" Still, she said nothing. For a moment, he wondered if he'd lost the connection—his phone only received one bar of service in their living room. Then he heard a muffled sniff, followed by a quiet, shuddering breath.

"Um—" But Belle's voice was still too thick with emotion. She tried to clear it.

"Listen, hey, I'm coming, alright? I'm on my way. Just tell me where you are. Are you at home?"

She cleared her throat again. "Yes."

Jim rushed to the kitchen, depositing the still-steaming bowl onto the cupboard. Then he opened the back door, retrieved his longboard, and met his mom around the front; she was already waiting for him there. "Be safe, okay?" she said, handing him his coat. That was it, no questions. He nodded. He had never been so grateful to have her for a mother.

Without his longboard, the trip to Tulgey Wood would have been much, much longer. Jim didn't think he could have stood it. Worst-case scenarios were already beginning to infest his thoughts like rats: had something happened to Maurice? To the shop? Maybe one of the inventions had exploded on him and-

Jim shuddered. The thought was too much to bear, even for a second. So, instead, he focused on watching each darting white line vanished beneath his wheels: one, two, three . . .

Ten minutes later, he skidded to a stop in their driveway, kicking up dust into the moonlit air. He paused. All of the lights were out, even the shop's, which meant Maurice was probably asleep. _Or stuck in a hospital somewhere_ , Jim thought, feeling sick. As he approached the front door, he ignored the Maurice-original doorbell contraption, choosing instead to rap quietly on the thick wood.

Belle answered.

He could tell she was exhausted, even on the darkened doorstep. Her usually well-kempt hair was loose and tousled, and when her eyes met his, they were half-lidded, pink, and puffy. Jim took a hesitant step towards her.

"Belle?"

Her gaze fell, and she leaned against the door frame for support. Jim took another step.

"What can I do?"

"Um . . ." She seemed uncomfortable, embarrassed, even, by her emotional state. Jim wished she weren't. If Belle was upset then there was a good reason for it. By thunder, if someone had hurt her . . .

She took a deep breath, smiling apologetically. "Sorry"—but Jim was already wrapping his arms around her, bringing his hands up to rest against her shoulder blades. He held her, not even certain if this was what she needed right now. But he felt so helpless. What else could he do? Slowly, she brought her own arms up to wrap around him, burying her face deep into his shoulder. "Sorry," she murmured again.

"What happened?"

She released him, stepping back into the shadowed entryway. "Come in," she said. He didn't need to be asked twice. He ducked in behind her.

They moved through the dark house (blindly, in Jim's case; he realized he'd never actually been inside the cottage before), past a narrow staircase before making a right into a small living room. Belle switched on a lamp. "Sorry it's so dark. Papa went to bed."

Jim issued a sigh of relief. That probably meant he was alright. "How is he?" he asked, just in case.

Belle shrugged. She took a seat on the couch, fixing her gaze out the window as Jim glanced over the room. It was, in a word, cozy, complete with a fireplace and two walls lined shelf upon shelf with well-worn books. The extra-plush couch and the armchair took up most of the floor space, but there was a small carpet, and on it, sleeping, was a small, scrappy dog Jim almost mistook for an ottoman. He smiled, unable to hide his delight. "I didn't know you had a dog." The dog stirred, opening one eye groggily ( _W_ _ho disturbs my slumber?_ ) so he could pair a face with the intruder's voice. Jim must have looked relatively non-threatening, because he wagged his tail, then immediately went back to sleep.

"He's older," said Belle, reaching down to tousle his fur. "He mostly keeps to this part of the house."

"Got it." Jim took the seat beside her, bringing his legs up so he could face her. "How are you?"

He waited patiently for Belle to speak. Not that he'd blame her if she didn't—heaven knew he himself was as likely to share his own feelings of his own accord as a sealed vault. But he really hoped she would. Communication was not exactly his forte, but he wanted her to know, to really know, that she could tell him anything.

He was about to make a clumsy attempt at conveying this message when, "My mother," Belle said.

Jim went very still. He'd certainly noticed that Belle's mother was never talked about, never mentioned by either her or Maurice. Jim had drawn his own conclusions. Maybe her parents had divorced, like his. Maybe she'd died. Whatever the case, he waited now, his eyes never leaving her as she collected her thoughts.

"Six years ago," she continued, staring down into her lap, "we were on a family trip. Papa had had a good year, and he wanted to take us to France. I was born there. Did you know that?

Jim shook his head.

"That's where my mom is from. So, we stopped at a gas station in Virginia on our way to the coast. We were planning to fly out from New York the next morning. Anyway, Papa and I went in to buy lunch, and when we came out . . ." Her tired eyes trailed to the fireplace mantle, where Jim noticed a photograph that was tucked behind the others. In its frame, he could just make out the photograph of a beautiful, smiling woman, peering out from behind another picture. Out of context, he'd have thought the photo was of Belle. He shivered.

"She'd disappeared."

Jim blinked at her, agape. "Disappeared?"

Belle nodded slowly. "We looked everywhere. The police looked everywhere. But six months went by, then a year, then two years." She shook her head. "She was just, gone. They all gave up, except Papa and I. They said she'd left us. We didn't believe that for a second."

"Of course not."

She smiled appreciatively.

Jim paused before asking, "So, what happened two days ago?"

Belle took a long, deep breath, and suddenly Jim wanted to hold her again, to close the space between them and take her hands in his. It _hurt_ , seeing her like this. But he kept his distance, respectful of her space. This was hard enough for her to talk about without having the room to process it all. "A year ago, Papa and I decided to hold back—not to stop searching. We will _never_ stop searching. But, it hurt both of us, following trail after dead-end trail. We just needed a rest, you know?"

She bit her lip now to keep it from quivering. Jim couldn't help it—he reached out and gently touched her hand. Tears spilled over Belle's cheeks.

"We got a call," she continued shakily. "Some sheriff's office in Maine claimed they had some . . . remains for us. We weren't surprised. I mean, _six years_." She shook her head. "We were expecting it to be her."

Jim traced his thumb across Belle's fingers. He could hardly believe someone so positive had harbored this much tragedy all on her own. On that note, how did Maurice do it? If he'd admired the pair before, he was in absolute awe of them now. "Was it her?" he asked carefully.

Belle met his gaze. "No," she said weakly. "It wasn't."

Jim might have assumed this was good news. After all, it meant there was still a chance Belle's mom was out there, somewhere. But as he studied Belle's face, saw how exhausted she was, he realized with a heavy sigh of his own that not knowing was much, much worse. She needed closure, Maurice needed closure, and until they had it, hope was going to keep stringing them along, dragging them through the pain of losing her over and over and over again.

"Belle, I . . ." he started, but what could he say? What could he possibly do to make this better? As Belle wiped more tears from her face, he went with the only thing he knew to do: he moved across the couch, offered her his open arms, and held on tightly as she folded into them.


	15. Chapter 15

Jim had stayed with Belle until she was fast asleep. It hadn't taken her long. She hadn't even been crying for more than five minutes before her shaking shoulders settled, and she was quietly breathing in his arms. As Jim made his way to her house two days later, he could still feel her soft hair vining through his fingers, the weight of her body as she'd curled into his lap, tucked her legs against his waist, and—

His breath caught. He had an odd habit of losing himself in the memory lately. Stranger still was the fact that, whenever he did, he was all but robbed of his ability to breathe. It was a startling sensation, and one he wasn't proud of. Belle had been _crying_. What business did he have remembering the moment with _fondness_?

Disgusted with himself, he shook his head, nearly sending himself off the longboard as he rattled sense back into his mind. He only prayed Belle couldn't read his thoughts when she found him on the doorstep.

"Jim, hi." She smiled, opening the door a little wider.

Jim shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. "How are you?"

She nodded her head noncommittally. "I'm alright. Better."

Jim nodded back knowingly. For the past two days, he and Belle had said little, but had shadowed each other as if their lives had depended on it. Jim had even opted for a front-row seat in Home Economics that afternoon, just so he could sit by her. Now that he thought about it, he'd probably checked in with her just over an hour ago. Still, he had to ask.

He nodded towards the house. "You still up for this?"

"Of course! I've been looking forward to it. " She stepped aside, allowing Jim to pass, and he took in the cottage for the first time in the light.

They were standing in a narrow hallway, a small bathroom to their left, and to their right, a shambolic study that stopped Jim dead in his tracks. He marveled at the ocean of page scraps that covered the every available surface, including the walls and even the ceiling. On them were detailed sketches: machines that located lost keys, robots that folded laundry. The scene was chaos, but somehow Jim was immensely calmed by it. "Papa will have to show you his plans in depth someday," Belle said proudly. Jim tried not to look too excited.

They entered the cozy living room again, which was now alight with the fiery palate of a setting sun. Belle moved towards the bookshelves, and Jim realized suddenly that, in the dark, he'd mistaken one of the shelf's contents for books when they were actually DVD's. He was at her side in a moment.

"This is _way_ more fun than going to the dance," he said, examining her collection.

Belle's eyes twinkled. "What shall we watch?"

His eyes went to the action/adventure genre first. He'd always been a sucker for classics like _Star Wars_ and _Indiana Jones_. Of course, Belle and her father had them all—even the extended editions of _Lord of the Rings_. But he stopped himself before making a suggestion. Tonight was _their_ night, and he wanted her to know it. So, he turned and bowed, gesturing towards the DVD shelf with overemphasized gentility.

"Ladies first," he said, winking.

Suddenly, Maurice appeared in the doorway, wiping oil-stained hands off on his apron. "Jim!" he exclaimed, and hugged his employee before Jim had time to say 'hello.'

" _Oof_ —hi, sir."

"I've told you a thousand times, call me Maurice. Now what are you dizzy dreamers up to this evening?"

Belle nodded at the DVD shelf. "Mind if we use the TV tonight? The Homecoming Ball isn't really our scene."

As Belle said this, Jim suddenly felt a pang of guilt. It was possible she actually felt that way—he'd assumed she had by the way she'd responded to his alternative suggestion. Like an idiot, though, he'd never thought to actually ask her. For all he knew, she may have wanted to go to that dance as badly as anyone, and yet here he stood, blatantly dateless and incurably antisocial. He could have kicked himself.

On cue, Maurice squeezed lemon juice into the wound: "Well, why aren't you kids going together?"

An volcano of anxiety erupted in Jim's mind. He looked to Belle apologetically, but she only looked as mortified as he did. " _Papa!_ "

"What?"

To his surprise, Belle laughed then, albeit nervously. "You _know_ I'd rather be here, Papa." She shot her father a pointed look and he threw up his hands in defense.

"Just asking a simple question."

Jim could feel that his face was still beet-red, but he managed a humble smile and said, "No, sir, you're absolutely right. I should have asked her."

The look that passed between him and Belle then made him lose his breath all over again. But he didn't have time to catch it before Maurice chuckled and said, "Well, I can't say I was ever much for school dances, either. Although one year, your moth"—he cut off when his voice cracked involuntarily, but he covered the slip up with a quick smile beneath his bushy gray mustache. "Anyway," he said, clearing his throat, "you two have fun! I've ordered in Pizza Planet, extra cheese, if you want any. You'll find me in my workshop." He turned to leave.

"You sure you don't want to join us?" Jim asked hurriedly. The idea of Maurice being alone while his loss was still fresh on his mind was more than Jim could bear, and he gave his employer an encouraging smile, in case he didn't take the offer seriously.

But Maurice just shook his head. "No, thanks. Lots to do. I've got a busted tea set someone wants me to glue back together. A tea set! Dog gonnit, I'm a mechanic, not an antique preservation specialist!" With a good-natured chuckle, Maurice turned on his heel and bid them farewell.

It took three minutes to decide on a movie after that. When Jim insisted she choose, Belle opted for an old (and she meant _old_ ) classic called _The Big Sleep_. She claimed Jim would love it. "The dialogue is so _witty_ ," she gushed as they moved upstairs towards the television room. "And the mystery is just the right amount of hard-to-follow. We can pause as much as you want to review the facts." As she placed the DVD in the player, she looked back to find Jim staring at her, an amused smile cracking across his face. She stopped, mirroring his expression. "What is it?"

"Nothing," said Jim, shaking his head. But he didn't stop smiling. As they entered a small entertainment room—complete with a Nintendo 64 and three corresponding controllers—he took a seat on the enormous beanbag in its center, patting the spot beside him as he waited for her to claim it. Belle immediately spun on her heel and free-fell backwards, landing on the bag with a satisfying crunch. She switched on the television.

"Um, we're gonna play some Nintendo one of these days, right?" asked Jim, gesturing towards the ancient gaming platform.

Belle clapped excitedly. "Ooh! Can we?"

Jim couldn't quite bring himself to say it, but he loved how passionate she was when it was just the two of them. It made him forget how miserable he was determined to be (a feat even Tarzan hadn't ever been able to pull off completely). It was also a side of her he didn't see very often. Belle was very much in her own head at school, checking out during group conversations to drift off into her own private universe while the world chugged on without her. As the opening credits of their movie blared through the ancient TV's speaker system, Jim felt determined to enjoy this exclusive peak into that universe. He only hoped that, one day, she'd let him see more of it.

About twenty minutes into the movie, the pizza guy showed up, a freckle-faced kid with black hair, a black skull-shirt, and braces: Sid, his nametag read. Jim was glad he'd gone to the door instead of Belle. He was all about punk culture, but something about this boy screamed 'destruction' in a way that made even Jim cringe. Using his own money to pay for the pizza, he hurriedly shut the door, and distributed the twenty-dollar bill Belle had handed him back onto Maurice's work desk. (He wasn't rich, but he could afford to feed them dinner once.) Then he made his way back upstairs.

When he slid onto the beanbag this second time, he must have misjudged his aim, because suddenly he and Belle were smooshed together, forcing them to scramble for a more comfortable position.

"Sorry, I'm just trying to—"

"—no, no, it's my fault, I—"

"—oh, did you want to be there, or—?"

"—I'm fine. Here, let's—"

Eventually, red-cheeked, they settled, Belle's shoulder overlapping Jim's, Jim's arm stretching comfortably behind her shoulders. He drummed his outstretched fingers on the beanbag, uncertain of himself until he felt Belle relax beside him.

"Well," she said. "This is nice."

"Yeah." Jim swallowed nervously. "It is."

". . . Jim?"

"Yes?"

But his friend never got to finish, because suddenly, the door opened with a foreboding creak, and in walked the very last person Jim expected to see:

Ariel Poole.

She'd clearly just come from the dance, decked out as she was in a bright-pink, poofy-skirted cocktail dress adorned with white-bead clusters. She'd taken the time (and the money) to have her loose hair curled into natural-looking beach waves, but most noticeable of all was a gold-shell necklace that hung heavily in the center of her chest. She was, in a word, stunning. The only thing that seemed out of place was her makeup; her otherwise-bedazzled cheeks were smudged with watery, black streaks.

"Ariel!" Belle exclaimed. "Are you alright?"

Jim meant to back the question with one of his own, but he realized with a flush that his mouth was hanging open like a guppy's. He snapped it shut with an audible click.

Meanwhile, Ariel swiped furiously at the sludge beneath her eyes. "Oh, guys!" she sobbed, crossing the room and sinking into the spot between Belle and Jim with a ripple that nearly sent the pair flying.

Jim tensed. She smelled strongly of vanilla and sweat, a surprisingly pleasant combination, considering the sweat probably wasn't all hers (although that knowledge was admittedly off-putting). On her other side, Belle wrenched herself sideways until she was facing her friend. "Aren't you supposed to be at the dance?" she asked Ariel softly. "Where's Eric?"

This triggered another bout of strangulated weeping that made Jim wonder if he should just bow out now and let Belle handle things. But then, Ariel took a deep, quavering breath and began her tale of woe.

"W-we were dancing. It was _so_ much fun! The gym was decorated so nicely, and oh my gosh, Belle, he looked so handsome!"

Jim rolled his eyes. He could only guess who she was talking about.

"Then Eric said he wanted to go get me some punch. I told him he could!" She gave an impressively loud sniff, and Belle rummaged for a pizza-sauce-free napkin. Ariel took it with an appreciative nod. "Jane and I kept dancing," she continued, blowing her nose with a sound like a Freightliner, "but he didn't come back, so I went to go find him. I figured he'd run into an old friend or something. B-b-but—"

Then her voice trailed up to a pitch so high Jim could swear the sound had actually pierced his eardrums. He was more incredulous than anything. Apparently growing up siblingless had left him with a limited vision of what girls could actually be like. Not that the crying bothered him. Heaven knew he'd heard his mom cry more times than he could count (usually when she thought he couldn't hear her). But witnessing someone in complete hysterics unsettled him. He just felt so _helpless_ right now. With Belle, holding her had been natural, instinctive, but right now Jim doubted he could so much as touch Ariel's shoulder without sending her emotions into further pandemonium. So, he held back, waiting patiently for the story to continue.

Instead of calming down, however, Ariel's feelings seemed to take a sudden, violent turn, and soon she was breathing like a steam engine racing out of control until finally—"BUT HE WAS WITH _HER_!"

Both Belle and Jim blinked.

"Who?" asked Belle.

"Eric!"

"No, no, who was he _with_?"

Ariel's bottom lip trembled with the force of a 9.0 magnitude earthquake. "Vanessa!" she squeaked, and she buried her face in the tuffs of her fluffy skirt.

Jim's temper flared. If she were talking about anyone else, Jim might have thought that Ariel was just being paranoid. But Eric, nice as he could be, had never stricken Jim as the type to settle for one girl—not even sweet, beautiful Ariel. The more he thought about it, the more Jim's fists began to look a couple of fleshy, pink grenades. He glowered.

"They were just talking at first," sobbed Ariel, her face still buried in tulle, "but then he asked her to dance, and then he asked her again, and again, and"—she didn't need to go on. Belle placed a hand on her friend's back, stroking it gently while Jim offered a helpless shrug. "Anyway," Ariel said, sitting up as her tears finally subsided, "Everyone else is out partying. I figured you guys would be here, though. Thought I'd come see if you were having more fun than I was."

Belle patted her friend's back again. "Want to finish the movie with us?" she asked sweetly.

Jim smiled. He liked that idea. But when Ariel glanced at the screen, she didn't seem too impressed. "Actually, I kind of had something else in mind."

"What?" asked Jim.

Ariel examined her intricate seashell-themed nails as she spoke. "My dad confiscated my phone a couple of days ago and hid it in his desk at work."

"Um, why?"

"Our butler, Sebastian, let it slip that I was dating Eric. Apparently Dad had asked him to _spy_ on me. Can you believe that? Anyway, Daddy wasn't happy about it. He claimed Eric was the reason I'd been sneaking out the last few months, which is total bull, because I only kissed Eric a few days ago."

Jim blew a stand of hair out of his face. As if he needed reminding. Still, if this turned out to be the end for the happy couple, they were a whole week ahead of Belle's predicted schedule. He certainly wasn't going to complain about that. He wasn't going to complain that she'd chosen to come here, of all places, when things had gone south, either.

"Anyway," said Ariel, "I know you're both pretty adventurous, and I thought that, maybe, you might want to help me get it back." She huffed. "My dad is _so_ judgmental! He won't even give Eric a chance!"

It took every ounce of willpower Jim had _not_ to point out that giving Eric a chance hadn't done Ariel any favors. Thankfully, he succeeded.

Belle frowned. "So . . . you're going to break into his office? Right now?"

Ariel rolled her eyes. "The whole building _belongs_ to my dad. It's not like he'd arrest me or anything. Besides, Aladdin and I broke in once, and we didn't get caught! So, what do you think?" She directed this last question at Jim, who was already busy daydreaming that he and Ariel were spies, crawling through air vents in skin-tight jumpsuits as they eavesdropped on enemy agents. It took him a moment to come out of it.

"What? Oh, umm . . ." He looked between Belle and Ariel frantically. On the one hand, he and Belle were in the middle of a movie. Bailing now would be kind of a jerk move (although they could always finish it later, he reasoned). On the other hand, this was _Ariel Poole_ asking, the girl he'd been pining over for weeks. He'd very near lost her, too, and if he refused her now, who knew when he'd ever get the chance to spend time with her, _alone_ , again? Besides, hadn't Belle practically told him to go for it back at Frozone's? All that talk about ice cream and waiting the relationship out—surely she'd understand if he went with her now. Wouldn't she?

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Um, that does kinda sound like fun," he mumbled. He didn't look at either of them as she said this, but he hoped Belle didn't look as disappointed as he imagined she did.

Ariel, on the other hand, was absolutely delighted. "This is going to be _fun_ ," she promised him, launching herself from the bean bag and skipping towards the door.

Jim shuffled after her. "Belle?" he asked. "You coming?"

Belle turned to face them, selecting a half-empty box of pizza and lifting out another cheese-heavy slice. "No thanks," she said, half-smiling. "Break-ins aren't really my scene." And with that she unpaused the movie, digging into her pizza with extra fervor.

She sounded reasonably unoffended, he supposed, though he still scratched at his chest uncomfortably. He could feel anxiety building up in him like he was a five-foot, eleven-inch pressure cooker. Maybe this wasn't a good idea after all . . . .

But before he could chicken out, Ariel grabbed his hand and pulled him forward. "We'll be back!" she sang, stepping through the door. And although Belle waved goodbye, even mouthing 'good luck' as Jim disappeared into the hallway, he couldn't ignore the guilt mixing in with his excitement, bubbling and foaming like a dangerous chemical compound in his chest.

* * *

Jim had never set foot in the business district of Waltville before. Why on earth would he have? Its looming, sterile buildings had held nothing for him but a bitter reminder of what would never be his. That said, since working for Maurice, his resentment felt more than a little stupid, now. As he glanced at the surrounding buildings, he reminded himself sharply that this—the big, fancy offices, the passcode-protected garages packed with slick, shiny sports cars—wasn't the only way to live. It wasn't even what he wanted, not really. If given the choice, he'd take Maurice's cluttered workshop over this cold, metallic definition of 'success' any day, no question.

This knowledge pierced his chest with a warmth even the biting October air couldn't affect. Warmer still was the feeling of Ariel's gaze on Jim as she waved him across the street. She hadn't changed out of her dress, but she had, upon Jim's insistence, bundled up in his bulky, brown bomber jacket, which she claimed was plenty warm. This left Jim exposed to the cold, but he wouldn't have cared if they were in the dead of winter; he'd have let her wear it until next summer if she asked. At this rate, maybe she would.

Jogging, he met her on the corner and they began their brisk walk. In the hopes of avoiding the parking-lot cameras, they'd opted to park five blocks away from Mr. Poole's company building, leaving themselves with approximately ten minutes of chat time. This was Jim's chance. He cleared his throat.

"So, what does your dad do?"

"He's the CEO of Triton Springs," Ariel replied. "Ever heard of it?"

Jim started to shake his head. Then he remembered the vending machines at school. That's right: Triton Springs' Purified Drinking Water was always one of the options, although he himself had never spent a dime on it. Maybe it was good, maybe not, but for three dollars a bottle he couldn't afford to find out. "Sure," he said, not admitting to this last part.

"It's supposed to be better for you than normal water," she went on, as if reciting a bedtime story she'd been taught as a child. "'Extra vitamins, extra vitality,' something like that. Anyway, he's _always_ at the office. My sisters practically raised me, honestly."

Jim wanted to ask about Ariel's mother, but after Belle's horrifying story, he decided it was probably best to let Ariel divulge that information in her own time. He changed his question: "So, what do you want to do? After high school, I mean."

"I want to _sing_ ," said Ariel, spinning on the spot. "I want start a band, write hit songs, and travel the world."

"You'd be good at that."

She flashed Jim a smile that made him glad he wasn't wearing his jacket. "Thanks," she said. "I think so. But . . ." She shrugged, the spring in her step faltering slightly. "Daddy doesn't think it's a 'profitable career.' " She made quotation marks in the air as she said this, imitating her father's deep, authoritative tone. "He won't even let the Street Rats practice at our house, and that was before I joined the band! Not that he'd even be home to hear them anyway. Someday, though, when I get the chance, I'm getting out of here, no matter the cost. I know what world I was meant to be a part of."

Jim admired her certainty. After all, this was no small plan she was formulating. If the Pooles were really as wealthy as Jim assumed they were (they had a butler, for crying out loud), Ariel had every opportunity to hang back and utilize the family funds until the last possible second, maybe even forever. But money hadn't gotten her what she _really_ wanted, and if she was brave enough and smart enough to see that, then more power to her. "You're amazing," he said, before he could stop himself.

Thankfully, Ariel didn't seem too weirded out. She took a sidestep towards him. "You really think so?"

He chuckled nervously, running a hand through his ruler-straight bangs. "Well, yeah. I mean, sure. I-I've always thought so."

He could have hurled, because now Ariel was looking at him—like, _really_ looking at him—as if this was the first time she was actually seeing him, and it was making Jim's stomach do flips worthy of the Olympics. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked him.

Perspiration was slick on Jim's palms, and he rubbed them against the side of his pants. But before he could clear his head enough to think up a suitable answer, Ariel waved a hand in a motion to quiet him. "We're here!" she whispered excitedly, pointing to the building on the opposite corner.

Jim had only ever seen buildings like this in the architecture magazines his mother brought home on occasion. Honestly, he didn't particularly like it. It looked more like a piece of bizarre modern art than a sound structure of business, but he supposed that, like limousines and minuscule dinner portions, this too was a symbol of wealth and not an item of practicality. You'd certainly have to be wealthy to afford the kind of person with the imagination and the know-how to make this kind of thing stand. He was about to ask Ariel what the physics of the place were when she tugged him to their right, veering them away from the parking lot and the main entrance towards the south side of the building.

Much to his disappointment, she did not lead them to a poorly concealed air vent. Not that that kind of thing worked outside of the movies, but part of him had hoped his vision of air vents and super suits might at least have been partially true. Instead she approached a side door, pulling a card key out of her purse and slipping it through the ID reader. The tiny red light flashed green, and Ariel pulled on the handle. The door slid open invitingly.

"That's it?" asked Jim.

Ariel shrugged. "What, did you think we were going in via the roof? Or the air vents?"

Jim pretended to find this funny, then he shrugged and gestured for her to go first. She slipped in, grinning wickedly. "You know, you're trouble when you want to be, Jim Hawkins."

"Trouble?" Jim said with a laugh. "You're only in trouble if you get caught."

No sooner had she said these words, had they slipped into the dark and closed the door behind them with a quiet click, than Jim realized just how wrong she was, because a barrel-chested guard was waiting there for them, and he flicked on the lights.

"I'm in trouble."


	16. Chapter 16

"For the last time, _he isn't my boyfriend_ . His name is Jim and he's just a—"

"Don't you take that tone of voice with me, young lady! You've already lied to me once tonight. I strongly recommend you don't do it again!"

"But, Daddy, I'm telling the truth! I _was_ at the dance tonight! I only left because—"

"ENOUGH! Are you bound and determined to embarrass me in front of my employees?"

"If you hadn't set this weird trap for us, I wouldn't _be_ embarrassing you right now!"

"Well, if you and that foster kid hadn't broken in last month—what's his name? Albert? Alfonso?"

" _His name is Aladdin._ Oh my gosh, Dad, you can't just call people 'foster kid!' What is this, the 80's?"

"I'LL CALL HIM WHATEVER I LIKE!"

And so on.

Jim had been watching this argument escalade from awkward to ugly for the past twenty minutes, and from the way the guards were settled against the walls, it appeared it was just getting started. If nothing else, though, it was an enlightening introduction to the renowned Mr. Poole.

The multi-millionaire was about everything Jim had expected him to be: well-built, well-bearded, and well-endowed with a temper matched only by his daughter's. Jim couldn't help but wonder if the man had ever killed anybody, but intimidating as he was, Ariel was undeterred. In fact, the more Mr. Poole blustered and threatened, the more Ariel dug in her heels to defy him. Jim almost wished they'd just book him already. The longer these two argued, the more time Jim had to spend in these dumb cuffs.

He'd received a firm scolding from more than a handful of cops in his time. His freshman year, he'd even been put on the watch list for neighborhood policemen (much to his mother's chagrin). Being cuffed, though, was a new experience entirely. As soon as the first guard, a muscle-bound Arab named Razoul, had flipped on the lights, another two were on Jim, shoving his face against the wall like an episode of CSI Waltville while they slapped a pair of steel bracelets around his wrists. Meanwhile, Ariel had remained untouched. So, clearly these guys had special orders straight from the top, and that could only mean one thing: Jim and Ariel hadn't just been caught; they'd been _expected_.

He could have kicked himself. How anyone, much less a couple of dumb teenagers, could have ever expected to sneak into a multi-million-dollar facility undetected was now quite beyond him. Why hadn't that been obvious before? Even Ariel's confidence should have tipped him off that this night was going nowhere fast.

Because of _course_ she'd been confident. No matter how the evening had panned out, there was no way she'd end up with more than a firm scolding (granted, she was getting a good one right now). What was it she'd said back at Belle's place? 'It's not like Daddy would arrest me or anything.' The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to pound his face against the wall until the cement cracked. He had to be the biggest idiot alive, and now he was going to pay for it. As he probably should.

As he dove headfirst into this downward-spiral of thought, another realization, this one deeper and more painful than the rest, struck him hard. Oh, what Belle must think of him now. He'd abandoned her, there was no sugar coating that. He'd ditched their plans to go bumbling after Ariel like a lovesick puppy, and—well played, Jim—look where that had landed him. Granted, as far as Belle knew, he and Ariel were halfway home by now, Ariel's phone in her hand, Jim's own hand entangled in her other.

Okay, so maybe that's just how _he'd_ envisioned the evening panning out. Belle had probably foreseen something much more like his current situation. Regardless, he'd proven tonight where his loyalties lay. He wondered if Belle would ever trust him enough to open up to him again, about _anything_. The thought alone made him sick with anxiety. He wanted her to trust him, the way she had just two nights ago. If he could just figure out a way to make things right, prove to her once and for all that, day or night, he'd drop what he was doing to be at her side, he'd never go looking for trouble again as long as he lived.

With a weary groan, he leaned against the wall and slid down, closing his eyes while the Pooles worked on the beginnings of WWIII. Even Razoul didn't stop him; this was going to be a long night for everyone.

"So, what, you're just going to throw him in jail now?"

"He broke into my building!"

"No, _we_ broke in!" Ariel argued, throwing her hands up with an incredulous laugh. "If he's going, I'm going too. It's only fair."

Well, Jim certainly appreciated the gesture, pointless as it was. Or maybe it wasn't so pointless: Mr. Poole gave a sharp roar before bringing his hands up to massage his temples. "You"—he began, then stopped. "No daughter of mine is going to spend the night in jail." And with that he signaled to his guard. "Un-cuff the boy."

Ariel's expression was triumphant, but Jim wasn't ready to be optimistic quite yet.

"And call his parents!"

And there it was. Jim cringed as Razoul turned a sadistic eye his way, grinning with a mouth full of gaps and gold fillings. "What's the number, kid?" he growled.

Now Jim really wished they'd book him. This was the first night in years he'd managed to convince his mom she didn't have to wait up for him. She'd actually shown some _trust_ , for once, and now, not only was he about to break that trust, but he couldn't even make the call to explain the situation himself. Instead, Grinny McGaptooth here was going to give her the juvenile-delinquent-gone-AWOL version, and there would go everything, everything he'd done these past few days to ease her anxieties about him.

Cringing again, he got to his feet, holding his wrists out for Razoul to free them. The guard obliged him, albeit begrudgingly, then Jim reached for his cell and handed it over, head bowed like a guilty dog. He sat back down against the wall as the guard lifted the device to his ear. "Hello? Mrs. . . .?"

"Hawkins," Jim prompted miserably.

"Mrs. Hawkins. . . . Yes, I realize what time it is. My name is Razoul. I'm with security here at Triton Springs." He paused. "Triton Springs. No, this is not a sales call."

Jim snorted, earning him a cutting glare from the guard.

"We've got your son here," he said, glancing at his captive expectantly.

"It's Jim."

"Jim. . . . That's right. He tried to break into the building. . . . No, we're not sure what he was trying to do. Get his hands on our product, most likely. . . . Vitamin water. . . . Ma'am, please, this is not a joke."

Jim couldn't help it—he grinned wickedly in spite of himself. Oh, his mom would give him an earful as soon as he got home, but in the meantime, he was glad she knew him well enough to realize stealing fancy water wasn't exactly his cup of tea. "Can I talk to her?" he said, holding out his hand. But the guard just waved him off.

"Ma'am, if you could, please. It's late and we'd like to go home. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . Thank you. Good bye." The guard's face was purple with rage as he handed Jim's phone back to him. When he saw his employer was watching him, however, he held in the impending explosion with masterful self-control.

"Young man," said Mr. Poole, closing the gap between them in an inhumanly long stride. Jim resisted the urge to stand up and meet him face to face—not that he'd have been able to. The man was _enormous_. "If I ever catch you near my little Ariel again," he went on, "I will press charges for this evening's events. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

" _Daddy!_ "

"Am I clear?" Mr. Poole said again.

Jim swallowed, not bothering to so much as glance at Ariel. She could huff and puff all she wanted, but this man had more than made up his mind. "Transparently," Jim mumbled finally.

Mr. Poole's mustache twitched. "So be it."

* * *

More than a few curious heads bobbled in Jim's direction the following Monday. Apparently his little run-in with the law was big news on the Walt High gossip chain, but only considering whose company he'd been in. Because, honestly, it wouldn't have been that big of a deal otherwise. After all, Ariel had plenty of friends, most of them guys, and a late-night rendezvous with any of them wouldn't have been out of the ordinary. The difference was that this particular outing linked to the one question on everybody's lips: what had become of Ariel and Eric? They'd been seen entering the Homecoming dance together, but once Ariel went MIA (with Vanessa seemingly in her place, no less), curious onlookers could only speculate as to what had happened next.

Well, now they knew.

On that note, Jim had a few questions himself—most of them for Eric. But rather than going to sit with the Street Rats, Jim put his interrogation on the back-burner and spent the better part of lunch hour searching for Belle instead. He _had_ to find her.

When she didn't turn up in the cafeteria, though, he wandered out onto the football field, now crisp and green after the post-game cleanup. She wasn't there either, which didn't surprise him; the weather was getting colder and blusterier by the day. He scoured the library and the practice rooms, the basketball court and Mrs. Radcliffe's classroom, but when the five-minute-warning bell sounded, he knew he had one option left: he made his way towards her next class.

But someone called out to him just as he placed a hand on the door, making his heart rev with anxiety. Ariel was weaving her way through the crowd towards him. For a moment, he considered pretending he hadn't heard her, but when she said his name again, he stopped, visibly shrinking into himself as he turned to face her. This was one confrontation he'd been hoping to avoid today.

"My gosh, Jim, I've been looking for you everywhere!" Ariel puffed, hands gripping her waist as she paused to catch her breath. "Everything worked out okay on Friday, right?"

Jim snorted. Being picked up by his mom in the middle of the night—who, by the way, had been so furious with him she hadn't spoken a word to him the whole drive home—wasn't exactly his idea of things 'working out.' He shrugged. "Not really."

Her blue eyes bulged, then, and for a moment Jim thought they might actually tear up. "I'm really, really sorry. My dad can be impossible to deal with sometimes. He just doesn't understand."

Jim was tempted to point out that having your building broken into was actually a pretty good reason to be impossible, but instead he addressed the second part of her statement. "Doesn't understand what?"

"You know, that you and I aren't"—she began, but stopped abruptly, scrambling for a more tactful presentation of the message she was trying to convey.

Oh, but Jim understood her perfectly. "Wow," he said, running a hand through his bangs as he tried to stomach the sting—because it hurt, much more than he cared to admit. "Thanks."

Ariel looked mortified. "No, wait, I didn't mean—"

But Jim didn't let her finish. Shaking his head, he pushed the door open, pausing only to nod towards the bulge in Ariel's left jeans pocket. "I see you got your phone back," he said. "Glad things worked out for you." Then he slipped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him.

With his long, flowing locks any girl would be jealous of, and a sleek, maroon blazer complete with gold buttons and a silky, white button-up, Mr. James Hook looked as though he'd be better suited for the high seas than a high school classroom—especially considering the shiny, metal hand that peered out from beneath his left sleeve. If only for entertainment's sake, Jim had considered taking Geography 101 from him that year. Unfortunately, so had every other student at Walt High, and as Mr. Hook only taught Geography this one hour, the roster was packed before Jim had even finished his decision to enroll. Belle, apparently, had been one of the lucky few to slip in. Jim stealthily took the seat beside her.

She didn't even notice he was there at first; she was too engrossed in her latest read. (Of course that's what she'd been up to.) But when the final bell rang and she reached for her backpack, her gaze finally snagged on Jim and she froze.

"Jim?"

He made as though he hadn't heard her, keeping his gaze fixed on the glowing projector screen in front of them (although he thought he saw a smile quirk across her lips).

"What are you doing he—?"

"All hands on deck?" boomed Mr. Hook, who was standing at the podium like a ship's captain at the helm. "Excellent. Now, first question: what can we learn from the study of ancient skeletons? Can anyone tell me?"

A hesitant hand pierced the empty air. "How much cereal the person ate?"

Mr. Hook gave the student a blank look.

"You know, cereal? Milk? Calcium . . .?" The student's failed attempt at humor faltered into oblivion.

"Anyone else?" asked Hook. " _Anyone._ "

Milo Thatch's hand shot up, earning him an appreciative nod from his teacher. "The study of biological anthropology can tell us a lot, actually!" he said. "Age and gender line a skeleton's morphology, or its appearance and size. For example, the clavicle stops growing at age twenty-five, so if the bone hasn't fully formed yet, the person must have been younger than that when they died. Similarly, cranium bones—"

"Excellent, yes, thank you Mr. Thatch, that will do. Ancient bones, in the hands of someone like Mr. Thatch here, can be examined and followed just like a treasure map"—he twirled the tip of his needle-sharp mustache between his fingers—"and we all know how I feel about treasure maps!"

The class nodded in unison. They knew.

"Now, if you'll turn your attention to the following example . . ."

Belle prodded Jim's arm with the eraser-end of her pencil. He glanced at her, nose upturned. "Um, excuse me, kind of trying to focus here."

"You're _trying_ to get yourself sent to the principal's office!" she hissed, nodding towards the still-oblivious Mr. Hook. Thankfully, the projector beams were blocking his view of the students significantly.

"Who, Principal Yen Sid? He and I are old buddies."

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she began to scribble down notes. But just when Jim thought she'd permanently honed in on the lesson, she pulled out her phone, and Jim's screen lit up a few seconds later.

 _Seriously, though, what are you  
doing here?_

He tapped out a reply.

 _I had to talk to you_

Belle arched an eyebrow, then her thumbs began to move again, her eyes simultaneously taking in the lesson in front of her.

 _What about? Is everything okay?_

Jim let his head roll to the side, his eyes half-lidded in an 'are you serious?' look. But when Belle just shrugged, he set to typing.

 _Yeah remember that time I totally_  
 _spaced on how-to-be-a-good-friend_  
 _101? I do._

When her screen lit up this time, she stopped writing mid-note. She stared at the message, eyes flickering with recognition (and, Jim thought, an echo of hurt, too), but the look was gone as soon as it had appeared, replaced by a half-shrug.

 _Don't worry about it._

 _No way,_ he texted, fingers flying.  
 _I was a grade-a jerk._ _You deserved_  
 _so much better and I am really, really_  
 _sorry._

She regarded him, then, with an expression so serious he thought he might have said something terribly wrong. But what she messaged him next took him completely by surprise.

 _I was worried about you._

He blinked at her, so taken aback by the fact that she wasn't furious with him he didn't know how to respond. She kept typing.

 _Ariel is very sweet, and she means_  
 _well, but when it comes to people's_  
 _feelings she can be careless. She broke_  
 _Milo's heart two years ago, and she's_  
 _been dragging Aladdin along for even_  
 _longer. I was_ _worried the same thing_  
 _might happen to you._

This new information buzzed through Jim's mind like an electric current. Milo and Ariel? As far as he was aware the pair had never exchanged more than two words total. However, if the pretty redhead gave him the time of day, Jim could see the nervous sophomore falling head over heels for her in a second, easy. Who wouldn't? This thought made his own wound sting all over again, but he shrugged the pain aside, trying to play it cool.

 _It's whatever. Im over it._

This earned him a doubtful look from Belle, and he caved.

 _Ok so Im totally bummed, sheesh_  
 _you know it all._ (She smiled at this.)  
 _But that doesn't mean I get a free pass_  
 _to act like a total idiot. Let me make it_  
 _up to you? I've got a surprise._

Now both of Belle's eyebrows shot up. Jim kept typing.

 _It'll be ready this Friday. But you_  
 _cant peek all week. K?_

Belle nodded: okay.

Then looked at each other, Belle's hazel eyes flicking between his, and they exchanged a smile so warm Jim felt it down to his toes.

Without warning, Mr. Hook let out a wail as he flew from the his seat he'd just taken at his desk: "WHOA-HO-HO-HO-HOOAAA!" Furiously rubbing his backside, he raised his metallic hand above his head and brought it down to point at one of the students. "PAAAAAAAAAAAN!"

All heads turned to the freshman in question—the boy in green Jim had seen at the pep rally. Seated in the far back, Peter Pan glanced around, elvish eyes innocently wide. "What? You think _I_ —?"

But Mr. Hook would not be fooled. "NONE OF YOUR LIP, BOY!" he shrieked. "YOU AND ME! PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE! _NOW!_ "

As the teacher personally escorted the grinning Peter towards the classroom door, Jim thought he heard Mr. Hook mutter, "I've waited years for this." And just like that, class was dismissed.


	17. Chapter 17

Jim owed it all to Maurice's scrap pile. Without his employer's eclectic collection of wheels, wires, and wood (the man sure liked to hold onto stuff), Jim would never have been able to make his solar surfer a reality.

Well, practically a reality, anyway. With so little time to throw the whole thing together, he'd had to make some significant sacrifices to the original design, including the beautiful solar-powered sail—he'd replaced it with a long, thin handlebar that curved out to the side and swooped around horizontally from tip to tip—and, well, the whole part about it being a flying machine. But that was okay. He'd have time to tweak it later, and in the meantime, he and Belle could just have fun with it. Provided it ran at all.

As Belle waited impatiently inside the cottage, he zipped his creation around the driveway a few times for good measure. There were no hitches in the startup, thank goodness—he'd have resigned then and there if he couldn't even get a simple push-button acceleration feature to work—and the design, though a little unorthodox, allowed for pretty good balance and control. Overall, he was quite pleased with the results. With a flourish, he swung the solar surfer around at the foot of the front steps, kicking up a cloud of dust as he tested the breaks. It was ready.

"Belle?" He peered through the front door, jumping back when he immediately came face to face with his restless friend.

"Now can I look?"

He laughed. "Hold on. You have to close your eyes first."

Her face folded into an suspicious glare.

"Look, I don't make the rules," he said. "This is just how surprises work, okay?"

With a roll of her eyes, Belle gave in, lips quirking into an amused smirk. Jim took both of her hands in his- _wow_ they were soft—and slowly, he lead her onto the dusk-lit porch. "Alright," he said, stepping away. "Now."

Belle's jaw fell clear to the floor. "Jim," she breathed, wasting no time before she hurried down the front steps. She ran her fingers along the length of the handlebar. "You seriously built this thing _this week?_ "

Jim shrugged bashfully, kicking at the wooden boards beneath his feet. "Eh, it was nothing."

"Nothing my eye." Belle bent herself into a variety of impressively odd angles, trying desperately to examine every inch of the solar surfer. "Does it run?"

"Does it run," Jim echoed with a sharp snort. "Well, why don't we find out?"

Belle moved around the surfer, setting one foot down on its base as she gripped the handlebar with both hands. She leaned back, feigning a sharp turn. "Aye aye, captain!"

Jim's face split into a wide grin. He'd never had anyone to share his creations with, not like this. Of course, his mom had always been supportive of his endeavors, and even Doctor Doppler, whenever he came to visit, would occasionally inquire after his latest project (although Jim had never felt especially inclined to share any specifics with the eccentric doctor). But Belle was different. She didn't just admire his handy work; she _understood_ it, everything from the whole down to the sum of its parts. Well, after all, she was Maurice's daughter, and right now Jim was very glad of it.

"Whoa, hey," he said, suddenly noticing Belle's unseasonal attire. What was she doing traipsing around in a Ravenclaw t-shirt and leggings in 40-degree weather? "You're not going anywhere without your coat. Hang on." With that, he moved back into the house. While he rummaged through their coat closet, he snatched her a thick, woolen scarf from one of the shelves, just for good measure. Then, when he was satisfied she wouldn't freeze to death, he went back outside.

Belle was already ascending the front steps to meet him. "Thank you," she said, reaching for the bundle, but Jim held out the coat by its shoulders, sliding her outstretched arm into one of the sleeves before bringing it around to meet her other arm. She slipped into it. "Thanks," she said again, turning to face him.

But Jim wasn't done. "Here"—he flung the scarf over her head next, taking his time as he wrapped it into an ungraceful knot around her neck. "Hmm, wait." He made a second attempt, bringing the material to wrap unattractively over her face, ears, and finally, her hair. He stifled a laugh. Her head looked like a poorly wrapped Christmas present, if someone had decided to use tabby-cat fur instead of wrapping paper. He was realizing now what an unfortunate-looking scarf he'd picked.

Belle chuckled, undoing the disaster. "You know, I think I'll be fine without this."

"You sure?" asked Jim, watching as she ascended the rest of the steps. Only when she'd disappeared behind the door did he realize he'd been staring blatantly at her legs (those leggings certainly did them justice), and he spun on his heels with a panicked squeak.

"I'm sure," said Belle, reappearing. "Now, shall we? I've waited _all week_ for this!"

"Yes, m'lady." Jim stepped onto the surfer, Belle joining him a second later. "You holding on?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Tight?"

" _Yes_."

"Good." He glanced back at her just to make sure. Then, with a devilish grin, he thumbed the acceleration and they shot off down the driveway with a noisy jolt, Belle's delighted squeals ringing in his ears. Jim wished he could put the sound on replay.

The wind that whipped around them was even colder than he'd expected, and for a moment, he wondered if they shouldn't go back for that hideous scarf. But Belle didn't seem uncomfortable. In fact, as they buzzed down Wonder Lane, past its sketchy homes and its even sketchier inhabitants (including a white-haired man in an orange suit and an enormous green hat, who waved at them with so much enthusiasm the hat fell off), she leaned out, catching the wind as deliberately as if it were the middle of summer.

Jim played to her enthusiasm, weaving back and forth as they made their way down the road that lead to his place. But as they approached Wallaby Way, Jim veered left sharply—"Hold on!"—and they flew down Mill View Lane instead, away from the center of town and in a direction Jim realized he'd never been before.

"Where are we going?" called Belle over the breeze.

Jim shrugged. "A whole new world, I guess." Then his eyes glinted as the road before them arched, vanishing over the edge of a hill. "Don't you dare close your eyes!"

They descended into adventure together.

Waltville was shelved between woods and swamp, Tulgey Wood to the northwest, Swamp Bottom to the south. Jim had never explored much of southern Waltville. It wasn't that Swamp Bottom was an unpleasant part of town; in fact, its lavish neighborhoods served as not only a home for Waltville's wealthy inhabitants, but as the favored location for the nation's Parade of Homes. But Jim wasn't exactly buddies with anyone who made that kind of money, giving him little reason to visit. Of course, now they had a new place to explore, which he was very glad for. He could do with a new adventure—preferably the legal variety.

As they entered the peaceful, moonlit neighborhoods, Jim slowed the surfer to a quiet putter. All around them, blinking fireflies speckled across the crisp, green lawns, giant weeping willows swayed in the breeze, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the sound of trumpets and tambourines. Someone was having a swinging party, old-school style.

"This place is so beautiful," said Belle. "Oh! Let's stop here!" Jim shrugged, pulling the solar surfer over to the curb where he helped Belle onto the sidewalk. She gaped at the enormous, southern-style mansion to their right, wrapping her fingers around the tree-tall fence that surrounded it. "Wow."

"Seriously." Jim tucked his hands comfortably into his pockets. "So, what do you think? Would you ever want to live in a place like this?" He gestured towards the home with a shoulder.

"Mm, it's not exactly what I'm used to," said Belle. "But it's lovely to look at. Um, you know that's Naveen's place, right?"

Jim's eyebrows shot sky-high. "What?"

She lead him down the sidewalk a few steps, then directed his attention towards two large, stone crests engraved on either side of a resplendent gate. "It's the Maldonian crest," she said. "Didn't you know? Naveen's mom is the Maldonian ambassador."

He shook his head dumbly.

"How do you not know that?"

Jim supposed it was because he'd never asked. He'd been so preoccupied with figuring out his own place in their group (and, well, trying to get noticed by Ariel), he'd sort of neglected the process of actually getting to know them. He turned to his friend, ashamed. "What else can you tell me about the Street Rats?"

Belle leaned back against the stone pillar, folding her arms across her chest. "Well," she began, "Naveen's parents moved here about three years ago, his freshman year. I don't think he was too excited about attending a public school at first, but the, uh, prettier members of the student body soon convinced him he'd adjust."

Jim shook his head. "That doesn't surprise me. Which ones?"

Belle's expression darkened.

"I'm sensing there's a story here."

She nodded. "Meg and Hercules haven't been a thing for that long. Just a year and a half ago, Naveen was trying to date her. She wouldn't give him the time of day at first, but one day, he finally broke her down. She was head over heels. I'd never seen her come out of her shell for anyone like that."

Jim cringed. He could tell where this was going, and he didn't like it.

"Of course, Naveen doesn't really like to stick with anyone for long. A couple of weeks later, he was chasing someone else. It broke Meg's heart."

"Stupid kid," muttered Jim. "Did he know how badly he'd hurt her?"

"Honestly? I don't think he did," said Belle. "According to Jane, though, Meg wrote him a song about it. She pulled him aside one day and sang it for him, I think in an attempt to speak his language. I don't know. Apparently it worked, though. He felt pretty awful after that. _Anyway._ " She shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. "I don't mean to gossip. You probably shouldn't spread that around."

Jim crossed his heart. "So, what about Al?"

Belle's lips twisted. "'Al'?"

He returned her smirk with a flat stare.

"I think he's been in the foster system since he was a little kid. I'm not sure why. None of the families were ever willing to stick with him, though. It's a shame. He really is a nice guy. I think he just . . . doesn't quite know who he wants to be yet."

Jim felt a sharp pang of sadness for the good-natured drummer. Suddenly it all made sense, how much trouble Al had being himself, how hard he fought for acceptance from his peers. After all, he'd spent his whole life trying to be what these families wanted, to no avail. Jim couldn't imagine he'd have turned out any different in Al's shoes.

"And . . . Eric?" he asked finally, because of all of the Street Rats, Eric was the one Jim understood the least. He was nice enough, Jim supposed, although, after what he'd done to Ariel, he still had a long way to go before Jim crossed him off of his blacklist. But he was always _so_ go-with-the-flow; it was difficult to distinguish if the guy ever had any thoughts of his own.

"Eric's dad is in the navy," said Belle. "I think he wants his son to follow in his footsteps, and from what I've heard Eric say, I don't think Eric is too opposed to the idea."

"But?" Jim could sense Belle had an opinion on the subject.

"It's just that, from my perception, Eric is so easily swayed by other people's opinions. He's nice, smart, even, but if you tell him to jump, he'll ask, 'how high?' before he's really thought things through. He's got a lot going for him, but he needs to start making his own decisions instead of following the crowd all the time."

Jim nodded slowly, taking this in. What Belle said made sense. Eric had certainly swayed in and out of his relationship with Ariel easily enough, and he took Naveen's bossiness as if he preferred it to having no direction at all. Maybe it was his complacency that made him so pleasant, but it was also the reason Jim still didn't feel as connected with him as he did with the others. Sure, Eric had accepted him from the beginning, but did it count? Did it really count when you kind of just accepted . . . everything? Maybe that's why he'd gone with Ariel's advances so easily. Making choices would be easy if you didn't have opinions.

"Huh," he said, his thoughts drifting away with a passing car. They were silent.

"And then there's you," said Belle suddenly. Jim turned, a sharp, startled movement, and their eyes locked. For a moment, he felt as if she were looking right through him. He resisted the urge to turn away. "I'm not sure I could tell your story."

He bit his lip. This wasn't a conversation he was ready to have. But why not? Belle had opened up to _him_ and the universe hadn't imploded. If she wanted to know a little more about him, than okay, he'd tell her whatever she wanted to know. He might not even hyperventilate while he—wait, why was he hyperventilating?

"You don't _have_ to tell me anything." Belle nudged him gently. He blushed.

"Nah, it's fine. Um, what do you want to know?"

She tapped her chin with a finger. "Where did you grow up?"

He clenched and unclenched his fists. He could do this. "Just here. Well, not _here_ "—he thrust an arm out at the surrounding grandness. "My mom and I live in a house near the center of town."

"Just you two?"

"Yep. Just us two." Okay, that was enough. He prepared to change the subject. But deep down something told him that wasn't fair. Belle had shown more trust in him than he'd ever earned. Surely she deserved a little trust in return. He took a deep breath. "It was . . ." He swallowed. "It was me and my mom and . . . my dad, once. He wasn't around much, though."

"Your dad the busy sort?"

When he could finally bring himself to look at her, her eyes were so warm and so full of kindness, they coaxed the truth right out of him before he had time to think. "More like the taking-off-and-never-coming-back sort," he said, shifting.

"I'm so sorry."

Jim turned, making his way back to the solar surfer. "Hey, don't be," he said casually. "I'm doing just fine." He hopped back onto his creation. "Shall we?"

Belle took her time to join him. She stopped on the other side of the handlebar, bringing her hands up to rest on it as she gazed at him. "How does your mom hold up?"

Jim relinquished his last defenses with a long exhale. "She says she's okay. She always says she's okay, but sometimes I just think she needs . . ." He shook his head. "I-I just wish I could"—he stopped suddenly when he felt something warm lock over his hand: Belle's hand. He looked at her.

"If you _ever_ need someone to talk to," she said, "I am always, always here."

And just like that, Jim felt something melt inside of him. He was about to rotate his hand, to twist his fingers until they were intertwined with hers, but something—fear? Uncertainty?—made him pull away. "Thanks," he said, "really. I'll keep that in mind."

He took her hand again to help her back onto the surfer.

They were back at the cottage an hour later. Jim had insisted they check out the party a few streets over first—it turned out the La Bouff's had been hosting a Halloween party—after which they'd opted for the longer route home. Jim had even taken a couple of videos on the way to put into his orb later. (Thanks to Wade's contributions, the device now had the room.) Now, he walked his friend up the front steps, quietly enjoying her company.

"So," he said when they reached the door, "think you can forgive me, eventually?"

Belle's head lopped to one side. "Forgive you?"

"For being a moron last week. For letting you down. This was part of my apology, remember?"

She shook her head with a chuckle. "Jim, you don't need to keep apologizing. It's okay. I know you just wanted to impress her. You like her. It's only natural."

Jim shrugged, avoiding her gaze. "Not _that_ much." His cheeks burst into flames. _What was he saying?_ "Okay! Well, it's time I got out of here, and time you, um, went back inside. I-I hope you were warm enough."

Belle nodded. "It was perfect. Thank you."

He avoided her gaze, mumbling his agreeance as he ambled down the front steps. But he chanced a final glance backwards, catching her smile just in time before it disappeared behind the front door.

"Sleep well," he said quietly, and inside, the lights went out.

Then they were on him.

Meaty fists wrenched his arms behind his back, while another pair clamped over his mouth and around neck. Jim gasped as his feet were swept out from under him, and with a muffled grunt, his face came crashing down into the dirt. Something hard collided with his stomach.

He looked up through a sea of tears, blinking furiously as he tried to identify his attackers. It didn't surprise him when two bulky shadows came into focus.

"Gaston, Kay"—he coughed, writhing weakly as Kay held him down—"w-what are you—?"

"Just trying to get something through your head, Jimmy-boy," Gaston replied, and his boot came crashing into Jim a second time. This time it met with the metal orb in Jim's pocket (he'd completely forgotten he had it on him), and Jim cried out, teeth gashing through his tongue to release a burst of metallic blood. He spat this into Kay's hand, but his enormous classmate didn't seem to care. He held fast.

"Hmm," said Gaston, examining his boot. "Interesting. Kay, get his pockets. He's got something on him."

Kay obeyed, quickly discovering the orb, and he pocketed the device with a smug grin. "Finders keepers."

"W-why"—Jim gasped—"are you doing this?"

"Did you think we were stupid?" Kay hissed in his ear. "Did you think we didn't know it was _you_ who sabotaged us in the bathroom on game night?"

Jim cursed. And here he'd thought he'd gotten away with that little incident.

"And speaking of mistakes," Gaston growled, "you're _really_ on a role lately, aren't you? Making moves on my girl so she couldn't go with me to the Homecoming Ball. You made her embarrass herself in front of the whole school!"

A flash of anger gave Jim the strength to meet Gaston's gaze. "You're delusional if you think she'd _ever_ want to be with someone like you!" Then he closed his eyes, bracing himself for a third kick. But the kick didn't come, and he looked back up at the seniors, confused.

"Is that so?" Gaston bent down until his nose was only an inch from Jim's. His breath was hot and sour as he spoke. "Well, let's see how good your chances are with her when we rearrange your face."

With that, Gaston's gigantic fist came crashing down right into the bridge of Jim's nose. He felt something snap, and then, as warm blood flooded over his lip, into his mouth, and down his throat, the world split into a thousand pieces. His vision had spiraled into oblivion long before Gaston's second punch connected.


	18. Chapter 18

The world came back to Jim in small spoonfuls.

First, his eyes drew in the stark-white ceiling above him, its squared-off slats and scattered pools of painfully bright light. He quickly closed them again.

An incalculable amount of time passed before they reopened and he noticed the thick green curtain, partially drawn around him. Was he in . . . a hospital? As he resigned himself to full consciousness, he realized that several shadows were moving on the other side of the curtain, while a slumped figure was dozing in a chair on his left. Jim tried to sit up.

"What's going on?" His voice didn't sound like his own, all scuffed and bone-dry. Worse still was the fact that he couldn't seem to open his mouth all the way. He rotated his jaw- _huge_ mistake—and moaned.

"Jim!"

The dozing figure sat up with a start. She rubbed her eyes, then dragged her chair until she was right at Jim's side.

His mom stroked his face frantically. "How are you feeling, honey?"

Jim tried to sit up again, stretching his fingers, testing his toes. He felt as if he'd been run over by a truck, twice, and while he normally would have spared his mom this kind of information, it felt really, _really_ nice to have her there. "I feel rotten," he admitted. "Ow, ow, ow, mom, the face!"

"Oh! Sorry, honey!" Mrs. Hawkins withdrew her hands, scouring her son's broken body before placing her hand on his shoulder instead. Lucky for Jim, it was about the only place that didn't hurt. "What happened to you? Mr. Larose said they found you lying in their driveway!"

Jim tried to shift again, but apparently his gut had evolved into a single, solid bruise, and he quickly surrendered. "Skating accide—"

 _"Don't"_ —Jim started—"even try that with me, James Pleiades Hawkins. The doctor had to _manually realign your nose_. Do you honestly expect me to believe you fell off your skateboard? Seriously?"

"Okay, okay, point taken." Jim closed his eyes, taking a deep, nauseating breath. He felt like hurling, but hurling required movement, and that wasn't about to happen, not while the sole of Gaston's boot was still imprinted on his abs. He swallowed back the urge. "I was"—then something caught his eye. He'd nearly forgotten about the shadows behind the curtain. "Hey, who else is out there?"

"Your friends, sweetheart!"

"My what?"

As if on cue, a hand appeared, drawing the curtain back just enough for Aladdin to peer in at them. His eyes lit up when he saw Jim. "Hey, guys!" he exclaimed. "He's up!" Then, to Jim's horror, a flood of familiar faces poured in through the opening, surrounding the bed completely.

He wanted to hide. He wanted to roll off of the bed and crawl beneath it where no one could see him. For Pete's sake, he didn't even know _what_ he looked like right now. For all he knew, Gaston had kept his promise to turn his face into a Picasso painting. The thought made him bring up his hands to cover himself, but Tarzan caught his wrist.

"I wouldn't touch it if I were you," he warned. He was alone, for once, no Jane in sight. Jim couldn't deny he was glad for that. The less people that saw him like this the better.

"Tar, what are you doing here?"

"We came as soon as we heard, man," said Aladdin.

"Heard?" Jim croaked. He cleared his throat.

"Belle texted us," said Eric, who was also without his usual female companion; Jim realized with a quick glance around that Ariel was nowhere to be found. "She said you were in trouble." He gave Jim a pained glance-over. "She wasn't lying."

Naveen waved a searching hand in the air. "You look like, ah, how do they say? A 'hot mess.'"

"Not helping, bro," hissed Aladdin.

"Sorry."

Jim closed his eyes. "That bad, huh?" Then they flew open again. "Wait, where _is_ Belle?"

Mrs. Hawkins rubbed his shoulder gently. "I sent her and her father out for some hot chocolate. She'd been pacing the hallway for hours."

 _Hours?_ He'd really been out for that long? "Is she okay?" he asked, feeling frantic. "I mean, did she get any sleep or anything?"

"Not a wink," said Aladdin. He added slyly, "She's been pretty worried about you, dude. Maurice had to sit her down to keep her from wearing a hole in the floor."

Jim smiled. At least, he meant to, but in his current state, it probably came across as more of a grimace. Whatever it was, though, it quickly vanished as the pieces of last night's fiasco began to come together: Gaston's fist, the hideous crack, the thick, warm blood flowing down Jim's mouth and chin. He'd lost consciousness after that. Who'd found him lying there first, he wondered, Belle or Maurice? Had Gaston or Kay still been there? So help him, if they'd given them any trouble-

Suddenly, Eric stepped back. "Shoot, somebody had better tell them you're up," he said. "I'll go get them."

"No, wait"—Jim still had so much to process, but Eric was already moving down the hall at top speed. Well. It seemed the kid cared a little after all.

There was a moment of uneasy silence before Mrs. Hawkins finally stood. "Well," she said. "I think I'll give you boys some space to talk."

"Mom, you don't have to go."

"I'll be right back, I promise." She kissed the top of his head. "Besides, I have a few questions for Mr. Larose. Apparently you've been spending quite a bit of time at his shop as of late."

Jim dropped his gaze sheepishly. Yeah, that cat was definitely out of the bag. He only prayed she didn't make him quit altogether. He'd only been doing it for her, after all, and of all the secrets to be keeping from your mom, having a productive, well-paying side job wasn't something most parents would deem punishable. Still, he had gone behind her back about the whole thing—and landed himself in the hospital, no less. Who knew what parenting moves she'd pull after tonight?

"Who did this?" asked Tarzan once Mrs. Hawkins had disappeared into the hallway.

Jim fixed his gaze on a spot on the wall. He couldn't tell them Gaston had attacked him, he just couldn't. The guy had beaten the tar out of him, and Jim hadn't even thrown a single punch. Did his friends seriously expect him to admit to that? _Out loud?_

"Well, _I_ can take a guess," said Aladdin, folding his arms. "What's big, stupid, and in _luuuuuv_ with himself?"

"Do you know what we should do?" said Naveen, cracking his knuckles. "We should pay Gaston a visit right now, show him what happens when you mess with a Street Rat." This suggestion was met with a series of hearty agreements.

"No, guys, don't," said Jim hurriedly. Then he bit his lip, which, thankfully, wasn't as swollen as the rest of his face. Well, now they knew. He sighed. "It'll only make things worse. Please."

"Jim, he can't just get away with this." said Tarzan. "He's always been a punk, but I draw the line when he hurts my friends. Look at where he put you!"

"I know," snapped Jim, "and it's just gonna keep happening, over, and over, and _over_ again, no matter what anyone says or does or . . ." He paused, clenching his hands against the spiking pain in his jaw. "Thanks, but there's no point. I'll deal with it, okay?"

To his surprise, Naveen's expression grew uncharacteristically solemn, then, and he spread his arms out, gesturing towards his friends. "You do not know what it means to be one of us, do you?"

Jim gaped at him. He really meant that, didn't he? These guys were actually ready to take on the biggest, meanest kids at school—who, by the way, had never had a quarrel with them before—for _him_. His expression softened. "You guys are awesome, seriously. But, I really"—then, in a single, horrible moment, the final piece fell into place: "Holy crap, _the orb_."

"The wha?" asked Al.

"My orb, thing- _gah_ , it's this device I've been working on. It has all of these memories stored in it. I was going to use it for my senior project next year. Guys, if Kay breaks it, or loses it, I'm _screwed_." Bruised or not, broken or not, Jim forced himself to sit up, now, slowly. He nearly cried out when his wounded gut objected, but he clenched his teeth and kept moving. That orb was his future. He _had_ to get it back—now.

But before he could make escape, Eric reappeared through the curtain, a haggard-yet-somehow-still-breathtakingly beautiful Belle at his side. "There," said Eric, satisfied. "I told you he was up."

All heads turned towards the wide-eyed brunette. "Jim," she breathed.

"Belle."

At first, no one moved. Then a wordless message seemed to transmit between the boys, and they excused themselves one by one, filing quietly into the hallway. A welcome silence followed. Belle approached the bed, taking the seat where his mom had been sitting, and for a moment, they just looked at each other, Belle's eyes flickering over his swollen, discolored features.

"You okay?" Jim asked finally in a voice far more feeble-sounding than he would have preferred. "Whoa, I sound like an old man."

"And you look like a dead one," said Belle, leaning forward to inspect him. For some reason, Jim didn't mind the scrutiny as much from her, especially at this proximity. In fact, thinking about it, he wouldn't mind at all if she came a little closer, even. "Thank goodness they fixed your nose."

"Thank goodness," Jim echoed. "That's my money maker, right there."

Belle snorted, leaning back. "You're ridiculous. How can you possibly be so flippant right now?"

"Well, you know me," said Jim, searching for the bed remote to ease his half-sit-up; it turned out this position was _not_ a sustainable one. Belle stood, sensing his discomfort, and together they eventually found it dangling off the side to his left. "Thanks." He adjusted the bed so he could face her upright.

"Gaston and Kay did this to you, didn't they?"

So, she hadn't had to fend them off back at the house. He could never have expressed just how relieved he was to hear that. "And what makes you think it was them?"

"No one else has it out for you like this, Jim. Literally no one."

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Oh, come on. What about Ms. Tremaine? She _totally_ could have jumped me out there in the dark." He actually laughed out loud, then, a sickly, pathetic sound. "Can you imagine, though?"

Despite her attempts to stop herself, Belle snickered back. "By the light of the moon, swooping in like a giant bird."

 _"Kaaaaaaaa!"_

"Mother of all Hubbards, what was that noise?"

 _"Mother of all Hubbards?"_

Jim's stomach became a sea of violent laughter, and although he tried desperately to stop himself—his agony was acute—soon he and Belle had lost themselves to total hysteria, earning them concerned looks from several passersby. It took them several minutes to regain even partial control.

Belle wiped tears from her eyes. "What's wrong with us?" she gasped.

"Nothing. We're great," said Jim, and he reached out and squeezed her arm. "We're great."

Belle gave one final, exhausted chuckle, and she reached for Jim's hand, squeezing it back. Their laughter finally disintegrated.

"Jim?" she asked.

"Yeah?"

Belle released his hand. "I really want you to understand something."

He dropped his hand, too. "What is it?"

She glanced back through the curtain. The guys hadn't come back yet, and apparently the nurses had more important patients to deal with. Satisfied, she turned back. "You know, I think I finally understand them."

"Who?"

"Gaston, Kay, Vanessa, all of them. I get why they target you."

Jim felt himself shrink back instinctively, but he forced himself to meet her gaze anyway. If she'd really figured it out, then all of Jim's greatest flaws were parading across the forefront of her mind as she spoke: he was too poor, too short, _too dang stuck here_ while everyone else planned for their epic futures. If Gaston and his posse could see it, then maybe Belle could too. He could have died with the shame of it.

He should have known, however, when Belle's answer was nothing like this. "They're threatened by you."

He scoffed. "They're _what_?"

"I'm serious. You make them feel insecure. They know what you're capable of, and the idea that you might know it too makes them squirm."

"Okay, you obviously don't know me as well as you think you do." The words were out before he had time to think them over, and they were met with a severe look from his friend.

"You're by far the best help Papa's ever had," she said firmly. "You built a solar surfer in a week. You actually created a device that stores memories and plays them back for you in 3-D, _at age seventeen_ , and you're trying to tell me those guys have nothing to be worried about?" She scoffed. "From what I've heard"—she lowered her voice—"Kay's had zero college application requests so far. His dad is furious. And Gaston spent so much time out of school for hunting season last year, he brought his GPA down to a 1.8. I should know. I tutored him."

Jim's jaw dropped (or, at least, it would have, had he been able to open his mouth more than a quarter of an inch). " _You_ had to tutor _him_?" he said, aghast. "Are you serious?" Well, no wonder Gaston was so ticked when Jim had come onto the scene; last year he and Belle had been spending at least an hour a week together, alone. Jim's blood boiled at the thought.

"Yeah, but it was obvious he just wanted to get me alone. I quit after three weeks," said Belle, a pained expression flashing across her face. She shuddered. "Anyway. You've got two things they'll never have: brains and a future. You bet they'd do anything they can to make sure you never win."

Jim exhaled, shaking his head. He wanted to believe her, really he did, but years of self-doubt and repeated bullying had formed an impressively large fortress around his way of thinking, and for all his trying, he found he just couldn't.

"So _win_ ," she said earnestly, placing a hand over his. Jim stared at the gesture, his heart pulsing wildly. "Once you see what the rest of us see, they'll never be able to touch you again."

He looked at her, now, looked up into those warm, wonderful eyes of hers. Oh, how he wanted to take that hand and pull her down into him, to hold her until she felt as safe and as valued as she'd ever made him feel. But the ever-throbbing pain in his gut reminded him that doing so might actually kill him, and he refrained. Still, he took the hand she'd offered, interlocking their fingers in a slow, cautious movement. His cheeks were set alight when he heard Belle's breath hitch.

Suddenly, Naveen burst through the curtain, followed shortly by the rest of the gang. Belle and Jim flew apart, but they were too late; Jim saw a delighted smile crack across both Tarzan's and Aladdin's faces.

Naveen, on the other hand, was completely oblivious to what he'd just stormed in on. "Jim!" he exclaimed, slamming his hands down on the bed post. "We have formulated a plan!"

"A plan?" asked Jim, still blushing. "For what?"

Then Eric stepped forward, smiling so widely Jim thought his face might split in two. "To get your orb back," he declared.


	19. Chapter 19

Jim dragged himself from the bathroom and into the hallway. He'd used the first five minutes of lunch hour to examine the off-yellow patches under his eyes, the long, purple bruises on his cheeks, the greenish-blue splotch across his nose where Gaston's fist had severed the bone. Even three days after the incident, he still looked like a first-grader's painting of a sunset. But what could he do?

Rolling back his shoulders, he did the one thing he desperately wished he didn't have to: he walked straight into the cafeteria.

He made a beeline for his friends as soon as he saw them, determinedly ignoring the curious heads that snapped his way. As he passed, he could almost hear their hushed assumptions. Well, they could speculate all they wanted, just as long as what had _really_ gone down that night remained a well-buried secret. He only prayed the possibility of expulsion was enough to keep Gaston and Kay's big mouths shut.

As he approached the Street Rats' table, he realized with a frown that half of his friends were missing. Jim scanned the food line for the absent members, Eric, Aladdin, Belle, and Ariel, but they were nowhere to be seen. "Where is everyone?" he asked, taking a seat next to Naveen. (He hoped the guitarist's height would at least partially shield him from the room's prying eyes.) Across from him, Tarzan and Jane smiled warmly over their textbooks.

Naveen's eyes flashed wickedly, but his tone was deceptively casual. "The others have their assignments. They should be returning shortly."

Jim was about to ask what he meant by 'assignments' when, suddenly, Eric and Aladdin burst through the cafeteria doors, Belle hot on their heels. They crossed the room in a matter of seconds, and Belle took the seat next to Jim—"Hey, you"—leaving little space between them as she caught her breath. Jim relished the closeness, even scooting a fraction of an inch towards her.

"Hey. What's going on?"

Then Ariel took the seat across from him.

"H-hey." He straightened instinctively. He hadn't seen her come in.

At first, the redhead just gawked at him. That's right—she hadn't seen him since the accident, yet, had she? He fidgeted under her gaze. But rather than turn away in disgust, she gave him a remorseful smile and waved—"Hey, Jim"—then froze when Eric breezed past her, opting for the seat next to Jane over the empty space beside her. Jim scoffed internally. Apparently some things never changed. Not that he cared. He shouldn't have cared.

He _didn't_ care, he decided firmly, closing the space between himself and Belle completely. Maybe he was imagining things, but he thought he saw a spatter of color appear in his friend's cheeks.

"No sign of the orb in Kay's locker," puffed Eric.

"What about Gaston's?" asked Naveen.

Aladdin held up his hands in defeat. "Just some hunting mementoes and a few girly photos." His face twisted. "The guy is disgusting."

"And Vanessa's locker?" asked Naveen.

To Jim's surprise, Belle was the one to report next. "I checked. Plenty of makeup and mirrors, but definitely no orb."

"No surprise there," muttered Ariel, making Eric squirm on the far end of the table.

But Jim was too astonished to acknowledge the moment of drama. "Belle?" he exclaimed. " _You_ broke into Vanessa's locker?"

"Oh, please. It wasn't that difficult."

"That's not my point."

"The _point_ ," said Naveen, "is that Plan A has failed, which leaves us with one alternative." A current of excitement buzzed between the group members. Even Ariel perked up at the implied mention of Plan B. It seemed they'd filled her in the week that Jim was at home recovering.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," he said, but in this, it seemed, he was completely outnumbered.

At least Plan B had its perks, he thought as Naveen drove them towards Kay's house later that evening. For one, they'd actually gotten to dress for the break-in this time, and while Naveen's insistence on face paint was probably overkill, who cared? Jim's dreams of intrigue and espionage were about to come true—not that he'd _ever_ mention this to anyone aloud.

Not even to Belle, who, despite being the only plainclothes team member, seemed to be relishing the mission as much as anyone. "Don't park so close!" she exclaimed when Naveen took a right onto Kay's street. "We need to be parked at least a block away." The Street Rat gave her an appreciative nod and doubled back, pulling over around the corner instead. As usual, he was smooth mix of business and pleasure, his razor-sharp focus paired with a mischievous grin and the occasional Law-and-Order-worthy comment. Considering the masterful way he'd pulled this whole thing together, Jim wouldn't have been surprised if this was the beginning of a long and illustrious career in the heist business for the fun-loving senior. He supposed time would only tell.

Behind them, Aladdin pulled up in the Magic Carpet, and he, Eric, Ariel, and Tarzan piled out. Despite their excited whispers, however, Jim could sense a tangible layer of discomfort: apparently traveling with the ex-couple hadn't been anyone's favorite experience. Who could blame them?

"Are we all here?" asked Naveen, and he made a quick headcount. "Let's see, that's seven of us, plus Jane, who is at Wade's on Tech support. So, eight. Excellent. Wade? Jane?" He lifted a finger to activate the device lodged in his ear. Are you there?"

"We're here!" Jane's British accent lilted over everyone's ear buds (courtesy of Naveen and his trust fund). Tarzan's face lit up at the sound.

"And we're ready to rumble," Wade added. If Jim didn't owe this kid his life already, he certainly did now. After all, this was no small favor they were asking, but while involving Wade hadn't been Jim's idea (in fact, he'd discouraged it), he had to admit, having a techy genius on their side was going to make a world of difference tonight.

"Roger that," said Naveen. "Alright, Eric, take over."

"Right." Eric moved forward, clapping his hands together as he turned to face the group. Jim smiled. He realized he hadn't seen _this_ Eric since their excursion into the woods a few weeks ago. Funny how people changed once you put them in their element. "Okay, everyone, do we all know what we're doing? Does anyone need me to go over the plan again?"

Ariel rolled her eyes, then raised a tentative hand. "Yes."

Eric nodded politely. "No problem. Belle, you're on distraction duty. Keep Mr. King occupied, offer your tutoring services for the Wart, whatever it takes."

"Arthur," Jim added firmly. "His name's Arthur."

Eric smiled. "Noted. Wade"—he pressed a finger to his own ear piece—"once you and Jane own security feed, Tarzan and Jim will clear the gate and work on getting the rest of us over. From there, we'll pair off and search the property. Al will be on lock-picking duty as needed. Any questions?"

"Yes," said Tarzan. "Can I search the kitchen?"

Jim snorted, but apparently Eric took the request seriously. "Done," he said. "I'll go with you."

Well, there went Jim's partner. Beside him, Naveen turned to Aladdin and said, "Al? You with me?"

"Sure. Let's take the basement. I'll bet they have a sick entertainment room."

Then a cold realization rushed through Jim's veins like ice. With Belle on distraction duty, that left-

"Well, I guess that means we're partners," said Ariel, turning to him with an apologetic smile.

Jim shrugged. "Guess so."

"Are you . . . okay with that?"

Jim sighed. He'd been so angry with Ariel that afternoon in the hallway, his wounds from their failed break-in still fresh at the time. Now? Now he just wanted things to go back to the way they were, before Walt High Idol, before her relationship with Eric, when getting to see her everyday was one of the things that got Jim out of bed in the morning. But he knew he'd never get that back, not now, not after everything that had happened—that _was_ happening.

On that note, he shot Belle a glance. She'd pulled Eric aside, and was nodding thoughtfully as they worked out the details of her assignment. As she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose (she'd worn them to complete her competent-tutor look), Jim felt something deep and warm bubble up in his stomach. Before he could stop it, it spread, flooding his whole system until he was left flushed and dazed where he stood.

Well. Maybe Ariel wasn't the only one who'd changed between the two of them. His blush deepened at the thought.

"Jim?"

"Hm?" His attention snapped back to Ariel. "Sorry, yeah, we're cool." He held out a hand diplomatically, and her lips quickly stretched into a satisfied grin.

"Awesome." She shook his hand.

"Alright! Let's get this ball rolling!" Eric exclaimed, and he motioned for the group to follow his lead. Together, they made for Kay's, huddled in a mass against the growing cold.

With a name like 'King,' maybe Jim shouldn't have been surprised that Kay lived in such splendor. Of course, his sense of entitlement and his obvious superiority complex could also be considers marks of a lavish lifestyle. Regardless, Jim was beginning to understand why Naveen had pushed so hard to use Wade in their scheme: only a genius could get them through this monstrous, castle-like fortress in one piece. At the mere sight of it, sweat beaded on Jim's forehead, despite the cold.

"Wade? We good to go?" asked Eric when they'd reached the front gate.

"Send Belle in," Wade's voice crackled. "I'll grab feed once she's inside."

"Roger roger."

But just as Belle was about to move into the camera's view, a pang of worry propelled Jim forward, and he caught her by the hand, squeezing it gently. "Hey, good luck," he murmured.

Startled, she looked at him, her wide eyes sparkling in the dark street. Then she reassured him with a smile before squeezing his hand back. "Will do." She stepped forward. With as innocent an expression as she could manage, she rang the doorbell.

Of course she was admitted immediately—who could possibly turn away that face? Meanwhile, the group waited quietly in the shadows until Jane confirmed, "We own video feed."

"Okay, go-go-go-go-go!" hissed Eric, and the team swarmed in front of the enormous front gate. Tarzan cleared it in a matter of seconds, aiding the still-sore Jim over first (yeah, the neighborhood police had kept tabs on them for a reason), and soon, they'd pulled the rest of the group over. Then they crept across the shadow-soaked lawn in an disorderly mob. Okay, so they hadn't practiced that part, but formation didn't seem to matter; they made it through the back door and into an unoccupied kitchen without a single hitch. Aladdin hadn't even had to pick the lock.

Once inside, the team took a good look around. The kitchen itself was enormous, albeit dark with its stone walls and black-granite countertops. But there was no time to explore; they needed to split off into pairs. As per Wade's incoming instructions, Jim followed Aladdin, Naveen, and Ariel through a door to the left, while Eric and Tarzan made their rounds in the kitchen, rummaging through drawers, opening cupboards. Jim barely caught sight of a security camera in the corner before they disappeared into a dimly lit hallway.

Jim froze for a moment. He could hear Belle's voice on the other side of the wall, but there was no time to listen in on their conversation; his group was already on the move. As they turned the next corner, Aladdin and Naveen disappeared through the door on their right (according to Wade, this would lead them to the basement), and then, just like that, Jim and Ariel were on their own. They peered around the next corner, ascending the staircase once Wade confirmed that it was clear.

"Okay, guys," said Wade, "so, Kay's room is going to be the third one on your left."

"How do we know he's not in it?" Jim whispered back.

Jane answered, her tone dripping with disgust. "Because he's downstairs flirting with Belle."

Jim's jaw clenched. Were the safety of his friends not at stake, that honestly would have been it for him: he'd have marched right back down those stairs and given the senior what for, even if it meant getting his face beaten in a second time. But with all that was at stake, he realized he didn't have a choice. Besides, Belle could handle herself. She wasn't even alone with Kay right now; Mr. King was there, too. So, he pressed onward, trusting Wade to keep an eye out for her, and in a few steps, he and Ariel entered the spacious, stale-aired space that was Kay's bedroom.

"I'll take this side of the room, you take that side?" Jim offered.

Ariel wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, you left me the closet."

"Oh, sorry. Um, we can swap."

She chuckled, moving across the room. "I think I'll be okay," she said.

If it weren't for the four-poster bed at the far end of the room, Jim wouldn't have been certain that this _was_ a bedroom; it seemed more like a sorely neglected laundry room, considering the fact that dirty clothes covered almost every surface, and where there wasn't a stained shirt or a filthy pair of pants, there were enough goopy, crumby dishes to supply a small army. Jim tried not to gag: he'd come face to face with an ancient pizza box hiding under Kay's bed. Not that he himself never ate pizza in his room (what self-respecting high school boy didn't once in a while?), but there was still a lint-covered slice left, its toppings including several well-worn socks and a wad of chewed gum. Jim shoved the box aside with a grimace.

"I'm not finding anything," he heard Ariel say behind him.

He stood. "Me neither"—but that didn't make sense. Where else would Kay have hidden the orb if not in his room? Jim supposed he could have left it somewhere else in the house, which was why he'd brought his friends along. But in all likelihood it was somewhere in this minefield of dishes and dirty underwear. If only there were someone they could ask, someone who knew Kay better than they did . . .

Suddenly, Jim froze at the sound of footsteps. Ariel froze, too, and they exchanged a panicked glance.

"Wade?" Jim hissed, pressing down on his earpiece. "Wade!"

"Hold on!" Wade replied.

" _Hold on?_ Someone's coming!"

"I know, just—"

But it was too late. Jim's heart leapt into his throat as the knob turned, and the door creaked open on its hinges.

It was Arthur.

"Arthur!" Jim gasped, gripping his chest. "I thought you were Kay. Um"—he glanced down at himself, remembering he and Ariel both had shoe polish smeared across their faces—"I can explain." But he needn't have bothered, because Arthur didn't seem very surprised to see him at all. In fact, he wasn't even listening to Jim as he walked in; he was too busy talking to someone over the phone.

"Yeah, yeah, they're here. Thanks, Wade. What? Sure, D&D Friday. But I have to finish my chores first. Okay, cool. See ya." He beamed at the thieves in his stepbrother's room. "Wade said you guys were here," he whispered, closing the door behind him as he pocketed the cell phone. "Is that why your friend is downstairs?"

"Yeah," said Ariel. "Oh my gosh, can you help us?"

"What do you need?"

"We're looking for an invention of mine," said Jim. "Kay kind of stole it from me the other day."

Arthur frowned. "That's what Wade was telling me. He said it's some kind of orb?"

"It's gold, about as big as my fist, and it's got all these intricate little designs on it. Have you seen it?"

The boy's eyes lit up immediately. "I _knew_ that wasn't his." He put a hand back on the bedroom doorknob. "Ector's been going on and on about—"

"Ector?" asked Ariel.

"Mr. King," Jim said. "Sorry, what were you saying, Arthur?"

The boy smiled. "No one calls me that anymore. Anyway, Ector kept saying how proud he was of Kay for making that thing. I figured Kay had stolen it, though. He can't even get the thing to work properly."

Jim cringed as visions of Kay's clumsy fingers trying to pry the thing open filled his imagination. He forced the thought away. "We need to get it back ASAP. Do you know where Kay's been keeping it?"

Arthur turned the knob in his hand and slowly opened the door. "No, but I have an idea. Can you wait here?"

Jim and Ariel nodded, and Arthur slipped into the hallway. They only waited a minute or two before he returned.

"I knew it!" Arthur whispered excitedly, and to Jim's delight, he produced the orb from behind his back.

"No way! Where was it?"

"In Ector's room," Arthur replied. "He'd put it on his dresser like some kind of trophy. Pretty sure he thinks this is Kay's ticket to college or something. He's gonna be real mad when it's gone."

Jim snorted, but before he could reply, a series of loud, sharp noises ripped over his earpiece, followed by two terrified cries: Aladdin's and Naveen's. He clutched his ear, trying desperately to make out what all the commotion was. On the other side of the room, Ariel was doing the same.

"Is that barking?" she asked finally, and Jim paled.

"Arthur, do you guys have a dog?"

"Yeah, two. We've got a couple of Dobermans, Roscoe and Desoto, but they're down in the basement. Why?"

The adopted Street Rats exchanged a look. "Are they friendly?" Ariel asked warily.

"Nope. Why?"

"We've gotta go." Jim hurried to the door, wrenching it open before another sound made him stop dead in his tracks: someone was coming up the stairs, fast, and somehow he doubted it was one of his teammates. " _Wade?_ "

The kid's flustered voice exploded through the chaos. "That's Kay headed your way!" he cried. "I'm sorry, Jim, I've got to get Naveen and Al out of this sitch first! You're on your own." And with that, his voice was lost amidst the sound of angry barks and shouts.

Jim quietly shut the door again and removed his earpiece.

"What do we do?" whispered Ariel, but Jim was at a total loss. They could try to find a hiding spot (burying themselves in his laundry might honestly work), but Kay was probably ready to hunker down for the evening. No question, he'd catch them eventually if they stuck around. They needed another way out.

Then, "The window!" Arthur cried. "There's a tree just outside. Kay uses it to sneak out all the time."

Jim could have hugged him. "Thanks," he said, ruffling the kids hair briefly before he and his partner made for the window. Jim pried it open, and immediately, a cold gust of wind flooded the room. But as soon as he'd helped Ariel through, as he himself began to clamber through the frame, orb in hand, something Arthur had said earlier fully registered with him, and he stopped: _Ector's gonna be real mad when it's gone._

"We can't take this," he said.

"What?" cried Ariel.

"We can't take the orb—Kay's gonna find Arthur in his room in a second, and he'll think he took it."

For a moment, Arthur looked genuinely scared; he knew Jim was right, but he shrugged a second later, holding one arm as his eyes met the floor. "It's okay, really. Just take it. I'll be fine."

"No way."

"Jim, we've got to go! Everyone's outside!"

He glanced down at the darkened lawn. Sure enough, his friends were down there, even Al and Naveen, now, waving for him to join them on the ground. He could still hear the Dobermans barking their heads off from somewhere inside.

But instead of joining them, Jim slipped back into the room, placing the orb back into Arthur's hands. "Take it," he said. "Put it back where you found it. We'll figure out another way."

" _Jim!_ "

Suddenly, the door flew open, and Jim heard the angry shriek of his fearsome school foe, but he and Ariel were already long gone, scurrying down the side of the tree like a couple of squirrels.


	20. Chapter 20

As the threat of an early winter loomed over Waltville (everyone's weather apps predicted snow that week, despite the fact that Halloween was still three days away), the pressure to start applying for colleges became too much for the seniors. Suddenly, once-carefree students could be found tucked away in various corners of the school, tearing through their options with a tangible desperateness—a situation aggravated by the upcoming College Fair.

Belle, it seemed, was no exception. Seated at a table in the library, both she and Jim neglected their homework to scroll through various university websites, Belle doing most of the searching, Jim watching gloomily over her shoulder.

"This one looks nice," she said, holding her laptop out for him to see.

He grunted moodily. "Where is it?"

"Michigan."

"Mm. Too far."

Her eyes grew wide behind her large glasses. "What did you say?"

Jim had never backpedaled so quickly in his life. "I mean, if it's a good school," he spluttered, "then go for it, obviously. I just meant . . . ." Well? What had he meant? He'd miss her, that's what, so much so it hurt to even think about it: coming to school every day and not running into her in the hallway, not walking to class with her, not making each other laugh so hard their ribs ached. Yeah, he'd like to avoid that experience as much as possible. "It would just be awesome to see you sometimes, you know, after you graduate," he finished clumsily. He kept his eyes firmly in his lap as he said this, but he could feel her eyes on him, studying him. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I—"

"I'd like that too," she said. "Quite a bit."

He met her gaze. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He gave a sigh of relief. For a moment there, he'd thought he'd really offended her. That was the last thing he wanted to do. It was just that, with all of these things he'd been feeling lately, feelings towards _her_ . . . well, he wasn't quite sure how to bring it all up, especially considering he had no idea how she felt in return. Maybe, though, if she stayed within a reasonable driving distance, he'd have a little more time to figure that out.

Of course, this was a selfish train of thought and he knew it. Belle needed to go where _she_ would thrive, even if that meant leaving him behind in the dust. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more ashamed he felt for even suggesting she stay close by.

Belle, on the other hand, seemed quite pleased about something as closed her laptop. "I can look at this later. Besides, aren't we supposed to be keeping tabs on Kay? I'll bet they're done setting up for the College Fair."

"Oh, crap, yeah." He swept his belongings into his backpack and zipped it closed.

"What are you going to do once you get there?"

Jim stood, holding out a hand to help his friend to her feet. "Not sure, but I have an idea. I just hope it works."

"It will," said Belle, and she squeezed his arm briefly—a gesture more calming and encouraging than she could possibly know. "Come on. Let's go."

They hurried from the library and into the gym, where, sure enough, the College Fair was just kicking off. Students in suits and skirts weaved between the tables, chatting up college reps and collecting pamphlets by the stack. Belle lit up like a Christmas tree at the sight.

"Hey," said Jim, smiling, "you should go look around."

"But, the orb, Kay, I couldn't—"

"I can handle it. You need to network, get your name out there. Trust me, one look at your GPA and all these reps will be squabbling over you like . . ." He tried to think of an appropriate analogy. "Like pirates over buried treasure."

She beamed at the compliment. "You really think so?"

"I _know_ so. Now get out there!" He gave her a gentle shove, and she laughed, stumbling forward. But she turned to look back at him, giving him a double thumbs-up before she disappeared between the rows of tables. Jim watched her leave, then he put his plan into motion.

It certainly wasn't as well thought through a scheme as Naveen's had been (speaking of which, the guitarist still hadn't entirely forgiven him for leaving the orb behind), and it depended way too heavily on a couple of things falling perfectly into place. But it was the only plan Jim had, and he wasn't about to let Kay just walk away with his future without a fight.

 _Fight_ : now there was something he wouldn't have considered doing even a week ago. Maybe getting a few hits to the head had knocked his courage loose, too. Whatever it was, he began to search the crowd for his target.

It wouldn't be hard to find Kay, once he actually showed up; the kid was a good head taller than most of his fellow students. The first real hurtle was simply a waiting game. Jim passed the time by wandering between booths, glancing longingly at what each university had to offer, imagining what it would be like to actually go someday. Then, as he turned the last corner, one particular table caught his eye: the San Fransokyo Institute of Technology. Now _here_ were some people he could have a conversation with! Jim broke into a grin, stepping forward, but his excitement quickly vanished when he saw who was standing at the table with _his orb_.

Kay King.

Jim's heart revved into panic mode. How had the enormous senior possibly gotten passed him? Well, there was nothing for it now; Jim would just have to do this the awkward way. He waited at a safe distance until it looked like Kay had finished describing 'his' product—was he even close? Jim wondered—then he waited for the opportune moment. Yes, there, just as he'd hoped: Kay couldn't get the darned thing open. The boy pushed and prodded, twisted and turned, but no matter what he tried, the device was sealed shut without Jim's secret code.

Jim moved in.

"Kay, buddy," he said, patting the flustered senior on the back. Kay spun on his heel, nostrils flaring when he saw who dared address him. "Thanks for introducing my invention!"

With a puzzled look, the college representative, a guy in a baseball cap whose nametag read 'Tadashi,' turned to face Jim. "Wait, this is _your_ invention?" he asked.

"Sure is," said Jim, trying to sound casual. "I had my friend Kay, here, bring it by while I finished up a project for work. I'm a mechanic at a repair shop in town," he explained. He hadn't actually planned to disclose this information right off, but he realized as soon as it left his lips that this was probably exactly the kind of thing universities would want to know. He straightened, his confidence rapidly growing.

However, Tadashi still looked skeptical, so Jim held out a hand.

"Do you mind?" he asked Kay, waving for him to hand the device over. From the panic and rage glinting in Kay's eyes, Jim thought he might actually clobber him right there. To his surprise, however, Kay opted for a more graceful bow-out, relinquishing the orb with a dissatisfied grunt. "Thank you." Then, without so much as glancing downward, Jim unlocked his invention, allowing his memories to stream out one at a time.

Thanks to Wade, they all fit, now, no hiccups in the playback. The only thing Jim regretted was that Kay had stolen the orb before he'd had a chance to upload his most recent memory-file: solar surfing with Belle. Now, that was a memory he didn't want to forget. He silently vowed to put it in as soon as he got back to the shop.

Meanwhile, Tadashi's eyes gleamed in the light of the miniature holographs. He hardly blinked, which Jim supposed must have been a good thing. Even Kay was dumb with amazement. When the last memory faded, and the glowing images twisted back into their original source, Jim closed the device and waited patiently for feedback. This was easier said than done; he could hear his heart thumping in his ears.

"That," said Tadashi after a tense ten seconds, "was absolutely, without a doubt, one of _the_ most incredible things I have ever seen. And I don't say that a lot—we've got some pretty crazy things going on at our school, believe you me."

Jim couldn't help himself: he gave a stunned laugh. "Really? Wow. Thank you!" Meanwhile, Kay was making his quiet escape into the crowd. Jim let him go. He knew he could have made a bigger deal about the senior's attempted theft—called him out, publically humiliated him. But that, Jim decided, wasn't his style. Even if Kay cornered him later and beat the living daylights out of him, Jim still had his friends, still had a future ahead of him. He'd still _won_ , as Belle had so kindly pointed out back at the hospital, and that was more than enough.

In the meantime, Tadashi extended his hand. "Please tell me you're a senior," he said.

Jim shook it. "Junior," he confessed. "But I'd love to stay in touch. Do you have a card or something? I'll definitely take that free pen." Tadashi laughed as Jim reached for the merchandise sitting on the table.

"Oh, you bet we'll stay in touch. Our instructor, Mr. Callaghan, is always on the lookout for fresh talent—and kid, let me tell you, you've got it."

Jim's thoughts were so happy he thought they might lift him straight into the air—was he really hearing this guy right? He refrained from flying around the room, however, and channeled his energy into an enthusiastic head nod instead. Only when he'd given the College Fair a good few yards did he allow himself a solid fist pump.

Wait until his mom heard about _this_.

* * *

As Jim got ready for bed that night, his thoughts pinballed from one success to another. Had he _ever_ had such a good day?

Once he'd left the College Fair, he'd headed straight to the cafeteria to enjoy the rest of lunch period. All of the Street Rats, both original and honorary, were there to congratulate him on his successful retrieval—and on his impromptu meeting with the college rep as well, which he'd happily filled them in on. Belle, especially, had been delighted by this news. In fact, she'd thrown her arms around him and had kept them there for a good, long while.

Well, if the lady was willing, who was he to complain?

To boot, a rather entertaining argument had broken out across the cafeteria while they were celebrating. It seemed the infamous posse was about to become an un-posse, _again_. Aladdin gladly provided his insight. Apparently, he and Eric had concocted an especially sappy love note, which they'd signed from Vanessa to Kay—and had left for Gaston to find. As everyone could imagine, this had sent Gaston through the roof (it seemed he wasn't quite as over his ex-girlfriend as he'd been claiming). Meanwhile, Vanessa assumed that Kay had written the note himself, while Kay, who didn't believe for a second that he was Vanessa's type, pointed a finger at the Tremaine sisters, who in turn pointed back at him. It was turning out to be quite the scuffle.

Even Milo, who'd finally taken a permanent seat at the Street Rats' table, was able to sit back and enjoy the show for a moment, although he was quite the changed man since Kida had agreed to go to the Halloween Masquerade Ball with him. After all, what did he care what the posse said or did when he had a cheerleader on his arm?

And speaking of dates, it seemed Aladdin had already found himself a potential as well. No one could deny the drummer hadn't quite been himself since Ariel and Eric had gotten together. It didn't seem to matter, either, that the couple's relationship status was still up in the air. His heart had been shattered, and there was just no recovering from that, not right away.

But something seemed to ignite in him when a new girl walked into the cafeteria.

" _Wow._ " That had been his exact phrasing, if Jim remembered correctly. Well, Al certainly had a point; Jasmine was definitely a beauty.

Jim chuckled at the memory and flopped down onto the bed, hands tucked behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, and then, with a satisfied smile, he closed his eyes.

But a sharp tap against his window made him sit bolt upright. _Hail?_ he wondered. The weather was supposed to get a little crazy this week. He ignored it. Then another tap sent him scrambling from his bed, and he opened the blinds to inspect the source.

Ariel was standing down in his driveway, a fistful of pebbles in hand. She was about to throw a third (the girl had some serious aim) when she saw him and waved him down. Jim's jaw fell open on its hinges. What was _she_ doing here? Now? And with a car running in his driveway? Only one way to find out, he supposed; he threw on a sweatshirt and a pair of boots and hurried out into the hallway.

"Honey?" his mom called from her bedroom.

"One sec!" Jim called back as he thundered down the stairs. He didn't even bother to grab his coat before he threw the front door open and stepped out into the freezing cold night. "Ariel?" he called, and on cue, the redhead stepped into porchlight.

"Hey," she said, folding her arms against her chest.

"Uh, do you want to come in?"

"No, no, thanks. We're actually kind of in a hurry."

 _We?_ Jim peered over her shoulder and into the running car. To his surprise, Naveen and Eric were inside, and they waved excitedly at him. "Where are you guys going?"

"So, actually"—Ariel laughed, but it wasn't her usual carefree giggle. She sounded nervous, anxious, even. She took a deep breath. "We're kind of . . . going on an adventure."

Jim blinked. "An adventure?" he repeated. "Where? For how long?"

"That's the thing." Again, that nervous, un-Ariel-like laugh. Maybe it was the cold getting to her, Jim wasn't sure. Either way, she was starting to make _him_ nervous. "You really inspired us today, the way you just took hold of your dreams like that and made them a reality."

"Well, reality-in-progress," he corrected. "But thanks."

"So, we kind of got together after school to talk about our options, just Naveen, Eric, Aladdin, and I. Naveen graduates this year, which kind of leaves us without our lead guitarist. Al and I were totally fine carrying on until we could get the band together again, but Eric and Naveen just didn't see that happening."

Jim gave a worried glance back at the passengers. Where could she possibly be going with this?

"Anyway, one thing lead to another, and we kind of just decided that this is our time." She took a deep breath. "We're taking the band to San Fransokyo to try our luck in the music industry!"

Now someone was going to have to shovel Jim's jaw off of the floor, because that was _not_ what he'd been expecting her to say. "So, you're leaving?" he finally managed to blurt out. "Like, leaving Walt High _forever_?"

Ariel nodded excitedly. "Uh huh!"

 _But_ , Jim thought desperately, _Ariel's only a freshman. Naveen is supposed to graduate this year. And what about our group? What about our friendship?_ He kept these concerns to himself, however, and managed a thoughtful nod. "That's quite the idea."

"I know, right? So? Are you coming with?"

Jim's heart came to a stop. "Me? But, I don't even play anything."

Ariel shook her head firmly. "Doesn't matter," she said. "You're part of the team. _You're a_ _Street Rat_. There's no way we'd leave without at least inviting you along for the ride!"

Amidst his growing shock, that meant more to Jim than he could possibly express. He was about to thank her for the offer when it suddenly occurred to him, "Wait, where's Aladdin?"

The redhead's excitement morphed into something bittersweet, then, and she shrugged. "He didn't want to leave Walt High. He's a great musician, but I don't think he's ever been quite as serious about it as the rest of us." (She said this as if she'd been with the band for years.) "We've said our goodbyes."

Jim steadied his swimming head with a hand. Aladdin, the band, San Fransokyo: this was all too much to take in all at once, and yet he knew—he knew his answer without having to think it over. "I can't," he said finally, and Ariel nodded. This, apparently, didn't surprise her. "It's not that that doesn't sound like a cool opportunity," he added. "In fact, a few weeks ago, I'd have probably taken you up on that offer in a second. But . . . then I met this group of weirdos who saw something in me I couldn't." He gave her the warmest smile he could manage, then, and Ariel's eyes actually bubbled over with tears. "I'm sorry, but, I've got to chart my own course. You guys taught me that."

Again, Ariel nodded, wiping away tears as they spilled down her cheeks. "We'll miss you," she said, sniffing.

Jim looked over her shoulder again. Naveen and Eric were both pressed up against the windshield, clearly awaiting his response with baited breath. When Jim shook his head gently, they slumped in their seats, but they each gave him an understanding smile. It seemed they'd known what his answer would be, too.

Just watching them, a sharp pain was quickly spreading through Jim's chest. He had to get inside before the pain reached his eyes. He turned to leave, but then, with a loud sob, Ariel threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into her. "You are amazing," she gushed. "Seriously, _so_ amazing!"

Jim chuckled, grateful for the warmth in this bitter cold night. "So are you," he said. "I mean that. You're gonna do great things." He released her, stepping back. "I expect a signed copy of your first album, okay?"

She nodded enthusiastically, spinning on her heel and heading back for the car. She shot him one final, dazzling smile before she wrenched the door open and slipped inside. Naveen and Eric saluted him. Then, in a moment that was far too short for the consequences it would reap, Naveen's car pulled out from the driveway and disappeared into the night.

They would never know how much of Jim had gone with them.


	21. Epilogue

Jim took a deep, shaky breath as he parked the solar surfer in Belle's driveway. It was 6:30 p.m. on Halloween night, and as the weather predicted, a light flurry of snow was dusting the town like powdered sugar through a sift. As lovely as this was on its own, however, the scene was made even more beautiful beneath a conveniently full moon, which set the cool, white powder ablaze beneath its ethereal light. Jim took this as a sign of the evening's success—because it had to be a sign, right? Of course it was. So, why was he so nervous?

He straightened his tie as he approached the front door, running a hand through his newly trimmed hair—he was still getting used to it. But before he could knock, Maurice came shuffling out into the snow from his shop, making a beeline for Jim. "Jim, m'boy!" he chirped, and he threw an arm around his employee's shoulder.

Jim laughed, returning the gesture with a hesitant pat on the back. "Hello, Maurice."

His employer stepped back. "Well, don't you clean up nicely! You're the spitting image of the old detective himself."

" _Good_ ," said Jim, glancing down at his secondhand pinstriped suit self-consciously. "Um, you did drop Belle the hint, right?" He placed the fedora he'd found at Medusa's Pawn Shop onto his head. Luckily, it fit like a glove; it had been her only one.

Maurice beamed. "I certainly did. She ate up the idea like a bowl of ice cream. Jim, this sure is a nice thing you're doing for her. Real thoughtful."

Jim let out a long stream of air. _Thank goodness._ In lieu of the fact that he'd left halfway through the film last time, he'd watched _The Big Sleep_ earlier that week, hoping to get some inspiration for his costume for the Masquerade Ball. The detective, Philip Marlowe, was an easy enough look to pull off, but he'd needed Maurice help getting Belle to go as Vivian Rutledge, Marlowe's romantic counterpart. Not that it mattered too much if she'd taken the bait; she'd be delighted enough that Jim was dressed as one of her silver-screen heroes. And yet, knowing they'd be a matching set tonight warmed his heart despite the cold.

As if on cue, the front door opened, then, sending light spilling out onto the snow-dusted driveway. Jim's heart skipped several beats. Belle was dressed in a striking, vintage white-and-gold-striped, tea length dress, her hair pinned back in a modern take on a 1940's hairdo. Jim recognized the desired effect instantly; she was mimicking the costume that Vivian wears when she performs as a singer at the casino (sans the glittering half-mask, of course; this was, after all, a Masquerade). The results were stunning.

Ironically, her mouth fell open when she saw him. "You look fantastic"—he could have laughed; _he_ looked fantastic?—"and you cut your hair!"

He shrugged casually. "Yeah, thanks to your dad's Barber-O-Matic. Figured it was time for the pony tail thing to go."

"It looks great," she assured him. Then her brow furrowed. "Your costume. Jim . . . a-are you actually—?"

"That's Philip Marlowe to you, ma'am," the skater said in his best Humphrey-Bogart voice. He removed his hat and gave a small bow. "And I'm at your service, Mrs. Rutledge."

Belle's hands flew over mouth. "Oh my gosh, you did _not_."

"He did!" Maurice exclaimed. "And now, if you kids don't mind, I'd like a couple of photos. Come on, humor an old fool."

For once, Belle didn't scold her father's antics. Nodding for Jim to join her on the porch, she moved to make room for him, then leaned into him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Jim only hoped the camera's flash white-washed his enflamed cheeks, because he probably looked like a tomato dressed up as the Italian mafia right now.

Fifteen minutes later, when the old man had finally had his fill of photographs, he sent them on their merry way, joking that if Jim didn't have his only daughter home by midnight, he'd eat all of the Chinese takeout he'd just ordered. Jim assured him he had nothing to fear. Meanwhile, he motioned for Belle to take the wheel, so to speak (the solar surfer didn't actually have a wheel). She took his offer, elated. Then, waving goodbye, they soared down the road, Masquerade-bound.

* * *

Alright, so maybe Jim didn't hate school dances _quite_ as much as he'd originally assumed. For starters, the school board had gone way out of their way as far as decorations went, transforming the school gym into a 18th century ballroom. Was every school dance this elaborate? Jim wondered, suddenly wishing he'd given them a fairer shot.

And as if sophisticated décor wasn't enough, the costumes Jim was seeing were out of this world. Aladdin was decked out as a blue-skinned, gold-cuffed genie, and Jasmine, his lovely date, was dressed to the nines in a gown of gold and glitter—a lamp, Jim realized with an appreciative chuckle. On the other side of the room, Mr. Hook, one of several assigned chaperones, was in full pirate-captain garb, and beside him, manning the refreshment table, were the Radcliffes, who'd gone for full-body Dalmatian suits. As it turned out, Jim went to school with some pretty creative people.

But as wonderfully as the evening was panning out, the two introverts soon realized that they needed a break from the noise and the crowd, and they escaped through the back door, taking refuge on a snow-covered bench. Jim dusted it off, laying his coat out so Bell could have a dry seat. Then they removed their masks, enjoying a comfortable silence for a few minutes.

"Hey, Jim?" Belle asked, finally.

"Hmm?"

She hesitated before asking, "Are you doing alright?"

His brow folded. "Um, yeah. Of course. Why?"

"I mean with Naveen and Eric and Ariel being gone. How are you holding up?"

"Oh." Jim thought for a moment. "I mean, yeah, it sucks that they left. I guess I'm trying not to think about it too much."

Belle nodded slowly. "Understandable." But it was obvious that something else was troubling her.

"What is it?"

She took a deep breath. "I know you really liked Ariel, and I imagine it's hard for you now that she's gone. I just want to say I'm really, really sorry."

Jim blinked. Is that really what she thought? I mean, sure, he'd miss Ariel as much as the others, maybe a little more, but his feelings were so different now. Had she really not picked up on that at all? "You know," he started, but a wad of fear the size of Atlantis had formed in his throat. He swallowed it down with an audible gulp. "You know," he began again, "she asked me to go with them."

Belle started. "She did?"

"Yeah," he went on. "They stopped by my house on their way out, offered to take me with them."

His friend's eyes went as wide as the full moon above them. "And, what did you say?" she asked quietly.

"I told them 'no thanks.' It wasn't a hard choice. I mean, I couldn't leave my best friend behind, now could I?" He met her gaze as he said this, hoping she'd sense the deep caring behind his words. But Belle only looked out at the snow, a dark shadow suddenly passing over her.

"Hey, what is it?" he said quickly. Had he said something wrong?

She sighed, brushing the gathering snowflakes off of her dress. "They're not the only ones leaving town," she said sadly.

The blood drained from Jim's face. "What?"

"It's my mom"—she broke off, shaking her head.

Jim immediately understood. "You got another call," he said. It wasn't a question, and Belle confirmed his comment with a nod. "Where?"

"Vermont. We'll only be gone for the weekend, but . . ." She turned to him, her shoulders giving way to a weight she'd been hiding until now. Jim could have kicked himself. How had he not noticed it there before? "I'm scared," she said finally. "After the last call, I'm just not sure I can take much more of this. I know Papa can't."

However Belle may have felt about him, Jim couldn't stop himself. He took her hands in his, stroking her fingers with the edge of his thumb. They were so, so cold. "I could come," he offered steadily. "Really. If you need me to, I could. I'll pack a bag tonight. Just say the word."

At first, Belle just gazed down at their hands, watching wearily as Jim's fingers gently warmed hers. He wondered for a moment if he shouldn't pull them away. Then, in a smooth, simple gesture, she brought his hand up to her face, and planted a kiss on his frozen fingers.

Maybe it was the cold, or maybe it was the fact that he'd never actually been kissed before, but any feeling Jim had had in his whole body was suddenly gone. Had that actually just happened? he wondered, his head spinning with a newfound hope. Had Belle really just . . . _kissed him_? Seizing what few wits he still possessed, he placed a hand on her flushed cheek, gently tilting her head up (she'd been staring fixedly into her lap). When their eyes met, when she finally returned his smile with one of her own, he began to lean forward, slowly, carefully, giving her plenty of time to pull away. Meanwhile, his heart drummed in his ears with a deafening force.

But she didn't pull away, and soon they were so close Jim could count the snowflakes clinging to her eyelashes. She smiled, closed her eyes. So did he. Their lips met, and all the while the snow continued to fall.


End file.
